


The Roommate Diaries

by Thalaba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, F/M, M/M, Multi, Romance, Roommates, Slow Build, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 42,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thalaba/pseuds/Thalaba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The quidditch lovers end up living together and things unfold...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Background One

**Author's Note:**

> Ignore all canon! Look at who I'm shipping—I'm messing with a lot of things here people so time, dates, and well facts have no place in this fic. When I first started writing this thing years ago it was meant to be a PWP. It has turned into more without me even realizing, and then life smacked me upside the head and unfortunately this story has seen little love from me in quite some time. I'm posting it here hoping that I'll be inspired to finish what I started.

Oliver taught Katie how to fly a broom.

That's what Mr. Wood would say if asked. Ms. Bell on the other hand knows that she had been able to fly a broom since she was eight years old, ever since her father kind of threw her onto a new model Cleansweep to demonstrate their safety to her muggle-born mother while poor Katie held on for dear life. She eventually had gotten the hang of it; as she was only eight at the time she couldn't be held responsible for this lateness in training or for the fact that Oliver Wood seemed to have been flying since before he could walk. Katie would acquiesce to the fact that Oliver had given her the opportunity to increase her flying abilities—adding her to the Gryffindor roster in her second year—and if she happened to pick up some tips on turning while speeding recklessly yet perfectly around the quidditch pitch, well, then all the better. Katie was a smart girl and usually picked things up quickly. Usually.

Oliver was Katie's best friend.

Well that was debateable. Katie had lots of friends—had  _always_  had lots of friends. Not that Ms. Bell had entered Hogwarts with the single ambition of being Popularity Queen of the first years, far from it. She was quiet, a little shy and unassuming; Oliver was the loud mouth who from day one had tracked down Captain Charlie Weasley to discuss page after page of chicken-scratch quidditch plays. But Katie had a heart larger than Honeydukes and a gentle touch and a readily given kind word and a warmth that people just couldn't help but wish to be near. Katie, Alicia Spinnet, and Angelina Johnson had become a group upon being sorted instantaneously, brought together by the fact that they liked flying more than combing their hair or simpering over probable pureblood marriages—their parents would never be so cruel—and that girls needed to present a formidable front in the presence of the likes of Fred and George Weasley and Lee Jordan, who would just as soon tickle you as toss you in the lake or offer a candy that would turn your lips yellow for three days.

She never lacked company on train rides or in study hall or in the common room, though there were times when she stayed in the library for hours to get some time alone not just to finish Professor Snape's latest essay on the effects of dragon's blood in paralyzing draughts. It was during these times surprisingly that Katie had run into Mr. Wood—the older boy sometimes hiding from over-affectionate Hufflepuff girls who couldn't get enough of his Scottish accent or zealously copying chapters from the copious books written on, for, or about Quidditch that were piled high in Madame Pince's cavernous book depository. He had appreciated that Katie hadn't giggled at the sound of his voice or had tried to kiss him after first introductions. They had actual conversations—yes, mostly about the sport he seemed to live and breathe, but she found ways to worm out other relevant information, like his favourite classes and if he had any siblings. He wasn't thick enough to ignore the hint and took the time to reciprocate before heading back to his favourite topic. Katie No Siblings was rather good at Transfiguration while Oliver Four Sisters was convinced he could take over Madame Hooch's position in another year and a new friendship was born beneath a portrait of a sleeping guard dog named Yeats.

Alicia and Angelina suspected quietly that the two were a couple, interrogating Katie in their dorm room late at night. Fred and George weren't so subtle with their suspicions but then again their names had never been used in conjunction with the word "subtle." Their identical laughter could be heard all over the castle when Oliver gave Katie broom polish for Valentine's Day, but by that time they were more interested in making their younger brother's life a living hell than the suspected love-life of their esteemed Captain and fellow quidditch team mate. It was all very funny to Katie. Oliver was handsome and sweet but they  _were_  only friends who, contrary to popular belief, had not snogged for two and a half hours behind the broom sheds last fall. Katie would have to wait another year for her first real kiss for Merlin's sake, and even then it would come from Ravenclaw Captain Roger Davies! He ended up breaking his nose a week later and surreptitiously avoided her for the remainder of their time at Hogwarts. She cried for a day or so, in which every male in a fifteen foot radius was public enemy number one, then won an impromptu Exploding Snap tournament in the common room, scaring her friends with theretofore unheard cackling laughter. Life got easier and Oliver got over being glared at for no apparent reason.

Oliver was bisexual.

That was obvious—at least to his best friend. They spent enough time together for Katie to notice Oliver checking out Cedric's arse about as much as Alicia's…but then again, besides Katie, who didn't check out Alicia's arse? Oliver spent so much time talking, playing, and dreaming quidditch that Katie just wanted  _someone_  to make him happy. Whether that person was equipped with a penis or vagina didn't matter.

He graduated and was signed to Puddlemere United's reserve list probably as soon as he got home while she had another year to deal with the Golden Trio and NEWT's and less-obsessed quidditch fans who only emphasized his absence even more with their periodic team spirit. But Katie Bell didn't begin or end with Oliver Wood. She faced her final year with determination. Her father had been questioning about careers—Thomas Bell himself being an accomplished healer at St. Mungo's—and even though that was already decided in Katie's mind she thought it wise to keep her options open.

Potions went better than she had ever expected, but in the end being a Gryffindor who didn't purposely antagonize anyone and handed all her assignments in on time worked in her favour. Charms and Transfiguration had been her best subjects all along and Katie didn't disappoint herself, getting top marks in both. Ancient Runes and Arithmancy were a struggle but she knew she was capable and with tutoring from Hermione Granger of all people she made it through. She barely passed DADA. Angelina and Alicia were brilliant at disarming and stunning and hexing and Merlin, Katie did just not have it in her to  _want_  someone incapacitated or hurt. The girl's called her a bloody idiot and stuffed her imagination so full of images of her late mother and her father and Oliver and every other person she ever loved tortured by Death Eaters that Katie couldn't help but produce her Patronus—a happy little tree frog—and blast the animated dummy attacker into bits. The Boggart hadn't stood a chance but a future Auror she was not, which was good because she didn't want her father getting ideas. The quidditch season had not gone particularly well, but Ravenclaw at least won the cup which was always better than Slytherin.

Oliver didn't meet her at the station.

He was working! They weren't dating for Merlin's sake, but no matter her protests Fred and George continued teasing when they sat around the Three Broomsticks two weeks later; Angelina continued to punch Fred in the shoulder as her Amazon legs took up most of the room under their table; Alicia continued to order drinks and make eyes at her date, Terence Higgs. Who knew?

It was another week before Oliver came 'round to Bell Manor. Katie always chuckled when her home was referred to by that. There were no sweeping manicured gardens or iron fences; a rubber tire and a much safer swing hung from large oak trees and Katie suspected their house elf Eely was secretly trying to set her father up with their widowed neighbour just to insure she would never have to leave the beloved estate. Oliver had changed little in a year, but when he picked Katie up in a teeth-gleaming bear hug she could feel the extra muscles underneath his pretentious collared shirt. He still wore the same spicy cologne that Katie wouldn't be able to name even if her life depended on it but always made her want to rest her head on his shoulder, and his chestnut brown hair was only a little longer in the front. They sat on the grass as he waxed poetically about PU and the four games he had started this season. Katie was to try out for the Harpy's next month so there was another reason to listen eagerly for repeated names or moves besides general interest. She had really, truly missed him and her sincere eyes proved it. Yeah, she could agree that Oliver Wood was her best friend.

He talked about his new flat. Apparently it was big and she needed to visit as soon as possible. Oh, and, if she was interested, one of his roommates was leaving for a new job in Spain at the end of the month. Was she interested? Katie looked back at her childhood home and laughed.

"Whenever have I been able to resist a set of brown eyes?"


	2. Background Two

Marcus taught Katie to be tough.

If by that Mr. Flint meant forcing Katie to see that it was possible to play quidditch with a broken wrist, endure broken ribs in three consecutive matches, and survive a hundred foot fall by being caught by a  _troll_  then Ms. Bell would cheerfully agree. She never made an emotional scene when the physically larger Slytherin took advantage of their size difference on the field. Katie was faster so it was clear he could only use brute strength against her. It was only game tactics—though several team mates threatened to poison Marcus in the Great Hall. Katie accepted her injuries through gritted teeth, took the bloody potions in the infirmary afterwards, and smiled as the fouls and free throws accumulated. If her team won in the end then bruises and broken bones didn't matter. As long as Poppy was around late at night to pat her on the head with a motherly sigh when all her visitors had left for curfew Katie would be okay.

Marcus was the scariest mother fucker that Katie had ever met.

For a second yes. And then eleven year old Katie met Professor Severus Snape and Marcus Flint had to take the less scary runner-up place on that list. By the end of second year Marcus really didn't register as scary at all. His reputation was intimidating, especially to kids leaving home for the first time in their short little lives.  _Watch out for Marcus Flint! He's part troll and his father was a Death Eater! He'll grind your bones mate!_  It was the "bones" comment that made Katie My-Mother-Was-A-Muggle-Born Bell stop and think. Giants grind bones, not trolls. Obviously this Marcus Flint must be misunderstood. But she tried to steer clear nonetheless. Giants, trolls: it wasn't smart to irritate either, and Katie was a smart girl. She usually picked up on things quickly. Usually.

When she finally came face to face with the infamous Flint she suddenly realized all the bad press. He wasn't a breathtaking Adonis. Oh well. What was more important was that he was a mean git who seemed to get a perverse thrill out of terrorizing those around him. She had seen examples first hand, what with being best friends with Mr. Quidditch Obsessed himself. Flint had a similar obsession and wanted to win at any cost.

It surprised Katie then that after causing her to fall off her broom during his final Hogwarts game Marcus zoomed down to save her from an early demise, searching her face briefly before dropping the blond unceremoniously onto the muddy grass and returning to the game. Even though Katie had suffered a concussion she remembered how his emerald eyes had searched and then closed off completely. She also remembered waking up early the next morning, wanting to get to the train under her own power, to see Marcus standing stoically at the foot of her bed.

"Flint," she had croaked, still sleepy and a bit confused. Katie hadn't thought they were handing out graduation certificates in the infirmary this year.

"Bell," he had grunted, eyes closed off once more. "You look like shite." Katie looked at him through bleary eyes for a span of moments then snorted.

"You've done worse. I'll survive." It had to be the concussion but Katie would have sworn she saw Marcus flinch, his jaw clenching at her words as if they attacked his very character. That wasn't what she had meant but Katie was asleep again in seconds and when she next awoke Marcus Flint was no where to be seen.

Marcus made Katie wet.

In the six years at Hogwarts where she vaguely knew Mr. Flint, their interaction limited to quidditch, school functions, and four potions classes Ms. Bell will admit that yes, she had shed a few tears over Marcus' treatment of herself and others. Well, when it appears to be that a player's main goal is to break some part of your body while suspended above he ground one can't help but to obsess about it the night before.

Wet? Katie had seen Marcus a few times after a match, after the dirt and blood had been cleaned away by the warm showers, after the protective gear had been stored and the heavy green quidditch jersey had been folded up. He would wear a damp school shirt, buttons undone enough to reveal an expanse of tanned chest, water dripping down his throat from still-soaked black locks. Katie would be sitting on the bleachers. She didn't

like waiting in the locker room—waiting for Oliver several would say—preferring to feel the wind sifting through her tresses and the bulging sun beating down than any drying charm. A few times she would be waiting for Roger, their ritual hand-holding-walking, and really had no time to fantasize about tall, broad, tanned Slytherin's who liked to break her ribs.

He graduated with Oliver and she heard he was picked up by the Falcons immediately, his reputation again preceding him. For a year Katie's bones could heal though it didn't help her team any. She had a dream once that he was in her room but Alicia woke her up before anything could be said. Or done. Katie hadn't told anyone about that. Not that she hadn't had dreams about Oliver either—with the amount of time they spent together that was inevitable—but the situations were so regular, so ordinary and non-threatening.

It would be long time before Katie would see Marcus again though she wished the situation could be different.


	3. Background Three

Katie loved living with Oliver and Richard. She loved living close to her friends; she loved her position as a reservist chaser with the Harpy's and the part-time classes she was taking at St. Mungo's in hopes of getting a second career as a quidditch trainer under her belt. She appreciated being the maid of honour for Angelina and Fred's wedding—if not for being forced to wear a taffeta puce dress alongside Alicia and George's date Luna Lovegood who could make a potato sack look sexy. Katie loved early morning jogging through muggle London, coming home to large cups of hot chocolate and silly, sleepy boys who really needed to shower and get to work. She could understand the groupies, even if they made going out for dinner a trial; Oliver was always in  _The Prophet_  for some new record being broken, and both her male roommates were always surrounded by beautiful women. She got her fair share of attention as well which could be easily laughed off. What Katie didn't love was Edward.

Edward—not Ed or Eddie or Ned—was Richard's obsessive compulsive boyfriend who acted jealous of dryer lint and therefore hated Oliver's prettiness and treated Katie like a serving wench who's sole duty was to fetch him clean towels and coffee whenever he spent the night. Or weekend. Or month. He stopped asking after Katie charmed the towels to react to water and turned his legs orange. Richard, unfortunately, was nearly blind to Edward's basilisk personality and after a few days of arguing informed Katie and Oliver that he would be vacating his room in two weeks and good luck in finding a flatmate who could deal with the former Gryffindor's inside jokes AND women's underwear in the laundry. Oliver and Katie threw a messy party, complete with sticky wine rings on the table and chip crumbs imbedded into the rug, and didn't clean up for two days.

Oliver dated a lot. Katie had been introduced to so many tall blond men and busty redheaded women that she imagined her friend was starting his own harem and was bringing out his collection one at a time. Katie…didn't. She'd lost her virginity to a French seeker during a break in training camp her first year with the Harpy's; she'd gone to a few films just to see how her date would react to muggle entertainment and if he was a good kisser. Most weren't. In truth Katie Bell was a busy woman who was more concerned with her health, her job, and her education. Her hand could take care of anything else much to the disagreement of fashion guru and newly engaged Alicia Spinnet when she stopped by for her weekly tea-and-gab.

"I need to ask a favour Kates," the crimson-nailed beauty asked rather seriously after an hour of chuckles and bridal magazines. "Terence and I are going to a funeral on Wednesday—" Katie blanched. "And I was hoping you'd come with me. I'm never good at those things and it's for Ter's best friend."

"Who died?"

"Oh no no, get that look off your face!" Alicia reached for a buttered scone. "I doubt you even know who he is. Julian Teague—Marcus Flint's older brother, well  _half_  brother. He was on business in Sri Lanka and apparently there was some cultural misunderstanding between Julian and the local goblins and…well there's an investigation into the actual cause of death but…" Katie sipped her liquorice tea pensively while Alicia continued to explain the current issues in foreign relations as well as the Flint family history. She had been right. Katie had never been a pack rat of gossip, had never went out of her way to learn that Marcus' mother Yelena had been a pregnant widow at the time of her marriage to the severe Malcolm Flint. It wasn't like Marcus was going to discuss his brother with her! For all Katie knew the professional chaser had a mansion full of siblings he never talked about.

"…another brother and a sister who's a sickly little thing."

"Is he alright?"

"Wha-Who? Oh, Marcus. He's had to come home from the tour and Ter says it's possible he'll quit entirely to look after the business but—"

"But he can't!" Katie sat forward. "He's married to the game Alicia! He's bloody brilliant on a broom, even Oliver would admit that!" Alicia looked up from her dessert with a coy smile.

"So does that mean you'll come to Wales with me?"

"Can I hex Ter mute?"

"Your hexes are rubbish Kates."

"Yea, I'll come."


	4. Background Four

It rained. It rained from the second Katie, Alicia, and Terence apparated into Swansea. It rained on the way to Talbot where a rotund house elf with caterpillar eyebrows formally greeted the trio, though speaking directly to Ter as a well respected representative of the Higgs household and Master Flint's close friend. Katie respectfully repressed rolling her eyes given the solemnity of the occasion and the fact that Ter had offered to pay for her room at the bed and breakfast. It was still raining when they appeared at the private cemetery at the back of the Flint Estate, umbrellas in hand and attire ruffled, and quietly joined the large gathering of pureblood cousins and worldly business partners already assembled. Katie kept her mouth shut and thought back on her conversation with Oliver the day before.

He had been surprisingly silent, not even an off-hand comment about dark magic or a warning to be careful on Flint property. In fact Katie thought for a moment he would ask to come too, but then it passed and he poured himself a whiskey.

There was a long line of wizards waiting to express condolences to the remaining Flints as the casket was lowered into the stony heath. Marcus was a statue beside his mother—or as far as Katie could see—raising a hand to shake whomever was presented to him. Another man stood to the indomitable Yelena Flint's right, dapper, slimmer than Marcus but with the similar strong jaw. Most likely his brother. It was too long a wait to say repeated words to a grieving man who probably wanted to be as far away from here as she did, and as Katie only knew Alicia and Ter she simply extracted herself from the milling group to wander.

There were manicured gardens here, slate pathways designed so that not one foot need be placed on the lolling greenery—though she had counted five marble bird baths and two gazebos in her brief solitary tour of the grounds. It didn't take a genius to feel the wards that guarded the estate so Katie played it smart and stayed on the path, the sprawling manor in sight behind her and the sounds of the funeral party still distinguishable from the rain though people were dispersing now. She was surprised to see a wheelchair overlooking a small lily pond a ways off the walkway, the occupant shadowed by a too-big black beach umbrella and with no other diversion but the steady plink of rain on the still water.

"Excuse me?" Katie called as she neared the pond, thankful for her sensible flats instead of the ridiculous heels Alicia had suggested. She noticed a slight turn of a very pale cheek and then a sweet responding voice.

"Is it all over now?" bright green eyes blinked rapidly reminding Katie of butterfly wings. "It's getting cold."

"Ahh yes," Katie nodded, recognizing the green eyes and remembering her friend's words about a sickly sister. "Visitor's are retiring to the house now I think." The girl nodded, long black curls lying listlessly upon her obviously thin shoulders even with the covering of heavy wool robes.

"Is that what you are?"

"I'm here for moral support," Katie replied honestly, happy to see the girl's lips twitch up. "I'm sorry but I didn't know your brother."

"Will you push me up the path?"

They managed with Freyja holding Katie's enlarged umbrella.

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Three irate house elves met Katie and their Mistress in the parlour, rolling the sighing girl off to a hot bath and a warm meal but not before Miss Flint expressed her thanks and squeezed Katie's hand, a sad resignation in her eyes. Katie gave her umbrella over—surely for inspection—along with her wet travelling robes, smoothing out her demure dress and accepting a small flute of champagne.

"Interrogating my sister Bell?"

Katie turned to meet the owner of the low gruff voice with an inhaled breath. Where the hell was Alicia?

"Hello Marcus," her blue gaze met his green ones. He was taller than she remembered, but she really hadn't gotten a good look at the last Harpy's-Falcon's game, what with her warming the bench and all. His tie was loosened and a brandy rested comfortably in his grasp. "Freyja's a nice girl. I didn't know you had any family." Oh my, that sounded bad.

"It's not as if I emerged from a rock Bell," he wasn't looking at her now just the crowd that drank and chatted and took up space. "Not that you would have inquired about my family in any event." Katie wasn't going to rise to the bait. They were attending his brother's funeral and she could hold her tongue. "So you came with Ter and Alicia? I didn't think you'd be allowed out." That raised her ire.

"Excuse me?"

"They're staying here tonight, the future Mr. and Mrs. Higgs."

"Engaged couples usually stay together," Katie murmured with a wry smile, sipping her drink.

"Then why aren't you back in London?"

"Is there something you're trying to say Flint?" Katie was tempted to place her glass down to free her hands for slapping. He'd kick her arse in a duel but perhaps she could transfigure hi tie into a boa constrictor.

"Back to 'Flint' are we?" He was assessing her again with those closed off eyes of his. Even in mourning the man couldn't be vulnerable. Maybe he didn't particularly like his brother. "Where are you staying?"

"In Talbot. There's a nice—"

"I'll send Finny for your bags. You may as well stay here tonight too." Katie lifted her face with an incredulous look while he ignored her to speak with an elderly witch with a feathered hat. "Close you mouth Bell, or you'll be sleeping outside."

"As apposed to what?" she practically hissed, annoyed and irritated at his commandeering attitude. "The dungeon?" He tossed back the rest of his brandy and placed it harder than necessary on a passing tray, a pumping vein in his neck visible as he unapologetically invaded her personal space.

"Let's get one thing straight Bell," he spoke low, crowding her with his larger size. Intimidating like always, like he knew he could be. "This is my mother's home so keep any fucking Gryff comments like that to yourself from now on. I'm sure you can control yourself for one night." He swept away, a growl reverberating in his throat, leaving Katie feeling like rubbish and waiting for hours on viciously loyal house elves to show her to her room. Alicia laughed but Ter didn't seem at all surprised.

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She had been introduced to Madame Flint, awed by the woman's grip and powerful presence yet changeable softness as they spoke of her daughter; she was introduced to Yelena's shadow, her son Ian whom Katie couldn't help but notice had a set of perfectly snow white teeth. Katie was tired of standing and avoiding politically incorrect conversations and finger foods and the increasingly suggestive comments Alicia was making to Ter by the time she was finally ushered to bed. It was certainly no dungeon. Opulent would describe it; her home may be referred to as Bell Manor but it hid no bedrooms like this. Velvet canopied mahogany bed resting on a shiny wood floor and a pleasant crackling fire glowing in the hearth. She'd barely pulled her dress off before falling to sleep.

Stomach pains woke her in the dark morning, the fire dead and goose bumps trailing down her bare arms, and not for the first time Katie questioned the intelligence in bringing a camisole and shorts to Wales in the fall as sleeping wear when a full length flannel gown would have served better.

Finny appeared out of nowhere the second Katie stepped outside the room and into the long hallway that occupied the evening's overnight guests. That was creepy. But unflagging politeness towards the grizzled elf on Katie's part earned her an escort to the Flint kitchens. What Finny failed to inform Katie was that his Master was already lounging within, shirt open, hair mussed, and appearing to have not slept at all. Katie not-so-subtlety tightened her bath robe.

"Sorry to intrude," she took a few steps into the light of half a dozen candles, eyes focused on the spread of turkey leftovers and cream-filed pasties and not on the glassy-eyed man on the opposite side of the island. "But the last good meal I had was a stack of blueberry pancakes yesterday morning."

"Help yourself," he made a vague gesture, speaking around a mouthful of alcohol and cold meat. They sat on respective stools, avoiding eye contact, until from somewhere a clock rang four o'clock. Katie's hunger had subsided as sleep gradually pulled her back but she felt loathed to leave Marcus to drink himself insensible. As she had reminded herself frequently during the day his brother had just passed away.

"Marcus," she began, wiping her hands on a monogrammed linen napkin—the only napkins available in Casa de Flint—"I'm sorry for what I said earlier. I—your mother is a lovely woman and I would never wish to embarrass her or your sister. Or you for that matter."

"You left out my brother."

"What?"

"My brother," Marcus licked his lips, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the wooden surface. "You met him. Cocksucker who's attached to my mother's hip. Don't you think he's worthy of dignity as well?" Katie's eyes widened as she was taken aback.

"Of course Marcus," she nodded, reaching for the cup of warm milk Finny had left for her, not really knowing what else to say. "He's your family—"

"I hate him." Blue eyes snapped up, posture rigid as Katie observed the furrowed brow of one Marcus Flint. He was staring at a spot among the dirty platters and the blond chaser sent out a prayer that he would simply pass out and not share what he was clearly wanting to confess. "He went to Durmstrang like Julian. Handsome. Perfect marks, perfect…perfect son." He burped loudly in the dim room and Katie fervently wished she had stayed in bed. "He thinks mother will give this all to him—wants mother to give this property to him, nancy tosser." Hands had become fists as they pushed into green eyes and Katie wasn't sleepy anymore. Where the bloody hell was Ter?! He was Marcus' best friend right?! He was supposed to be here listening to the drunken confessions of his mourning fellow Slytherin! "Julian knew the ins and outs; it's like mother trained him from the womb to run an empire for fuck sake! Stocks, bonds, negotiations. And now he's dead!" Oh please please don't cry. "And if I want any future for Freyja I'm going to have to take his place—"

"What?" It just came out. The stool gave a little screech as Katie stood up, looking down on the shaggy head of her professional competition. Alicia couldn't have been right in this! "Marcus are you mad? You can't give up quidditch! You can't give up your dreams—and I highly doubt your brother would want you to!" Dark, troubled eyes looked up at her as she prattled on. "Your mum seems incredibly capable, and strong enough to throw you over her lap I'm sure. She wouldn't let anything happen to her daughter." The last was said gently and if it had been Oliver seated before her Katie would have reached out. But Marcus wasn't Oliver. He also wasn't as drunk as she thought as demonstrated when Katie attempted to move away from the island. His calloused hand flicked out, fingers wrapping deftly around her wrist.

"Don't."

Katie winced despite herself. It was the wrist she had broken years ago, fighting for the quaffle against a reported troll. At least she was ambidextrous now. Marcus released her and looked away.

"Sorry."

Katie reclaimed her arm but wasn't about to run.

"You can still take care of Freyja without giving up a lucrative career Marcus. Yea, even if it means the Harpy's lose again this year. At least I'm not a starter yet so it won't be my ribs." Slowly Katie offered a smile, waiting until Marcus saw it. "And now I'm tired and I'm going back to bed. And you should sleep this off." He grasped the near empty bottle of Scotch and tore his stare away from her bare knees.

"I'll show you the way back."

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"…an' no doxies in ya luggage Katie?"

Back in London, comfortable, with a jug of margaritas in the living room, listening to Richard pack the last of his belongings while regaling Oliver with tales of the forbidden Flint Estate. Katie had known when it occurred that she wouldn't repeat Marcus' secret fears so she settled for lawn maintenance obsessions and descriptions of relatives that resembled tree trunks. Not trolls.

"I…I don't think he's happy Oliver." Katie poured them both another round.

"We don't always get wot we want." He took the tall purple glass, wrapping his arm around Katie's shoulder. That cologne. Katie smiled softly.

"You'll always have me around."

"Don't know wot I'd do without ya."


	5. Tuesdays with Alicia

"He talks about you, you know." A new shade of nail polish today, blue with a French manicure, and a self-designed hand bag resting on the lacquered café table: Ms. Spinnet-Higgs had always been stylish in her opinion. Alicia knew more about people than most would think. She would never claim to have been friends with everyone during her seven years at Hogwarts School of Wizardry; Alicia was friendly but selective, approachable but harsh. Alicia had no qualms with kicking someone's ass. She craved excitement—it was what had made her such a good chaser, twisting opponents in circles while avoiding knocks to the head as well as broken bones. Alicia wasn't a martyr to the Quidditch Cup cause and she loved her body thank you very much. It was one of many things she and her husband had in common.

"How the bloody hell would ya know that?" Alicia raised a nicely shaped eyebrow, staying silent until their coffees were placed in front of them. Everyone doubted her sources.

"He talks to Terence of course," she sipped daintily between red lips, "and Terence talks to me. When our mouths aren't otherwise occupied." Her friend made a face and she chuckled. "But it's not exactly  _new_  information. Is it?" She watched Oliver discreetly. He wasn't publicly private; he had nothing to be ashamed of, no reason to hide who he was or who he loved. But Alicia had never believed Oliver really loved the men and women who accompanied him around town at night or the ones who cheered from the stands—their reaction times were a little off but it wasn't as if the Keeper would notice.

"I'm surprised he even remembers me at all."

"Don't be a hag Oliver."

Alicia and Terence had been an item for years—in secret yes, but that just added to the thrill: sneaking out of towers and dungeons, glaring at each other in groups then having Ter's fingers rushing up her thighs in empty corridors. It was one very early Sunday morning in Fourth Year that a dozing Ali and Ter were startled by a cursing, raging, possibly drunken Marcus Flint in the Slytherin dormitories. Alicia wisely stayed in bed. She could have been an actress.

" _Were you in a fight Marcus? Fuck mate, why didn't you come get me—or Pucey—"_

" _You know I wasn't in a fight, ponce! Now get me a fucking towel!"_

_She could hear Ter puttering around their shared room, a tugging of fabric and more muttered and not-so-muttered curses. A firewhiskey bottle was opened—oh yea, she could tell. She had never expected to be privy to the forthcoming conversation._

" _Christ. Wood likes the tough love eh? Seems you're the skirt in this relationsh—"_

_There was a sharp groan and Alicia had the distinct impression Ter had been socked in the gut._

" _You don't know anything about it Higgs and I told you before to keep your fucking mouth shut!" There was a hiss and the slosh of liquor, staggering steps._

" _If you get distracted Flint," Ter croaked, "we'll be shite out of luck in winning the cup this year."_

" _Distracted?!" Laughter like knocking stones, more hissing. "Who's been screwing the bint all year?!" Alicia felt vindicated to hear a meaty smack of flesh on flesh and took the moment to gently turn her head in the shadow of heavy draperies. Either Flint actually had gotten into a fight or he had been kissing a kneazle all night. Had a nasty cut under one eye too._

"The Falcons are going to offer him a raise. There's been too much talk of early retirement." She hid her laugh behind a cough as Oliver gave himself away by scoffing.

"Three months after the funeral and he hasn't left the pitch yet. Marcus Flint'll die on his broom."

"Funny. I thought you wanted him to die on yours." Alicia shifted in her chair, and offered a sickly sweet smile.

"I thought you needed season tickets this year."

"Yes, and you need a roommate."

"Unless you're leaving Terence after two weeks of marriage, I really don't see how the two subjects are related. Though to tell ya the truth I wouldn't be surprised."

The shop owner sighed and pushed back newly coiffed brown locks. Men were so thick! But then again she hadn't fared any better with his female counterpart. Katie had laughed—a little breathily?—and assured Alicia that her and Oliver's financial situations weren't nearly so dire to facilitate the search for a new roommate. Granted, it didn't seem like the Harpy's were ever going to let her off the bench and her education costs at St. Mungo's were steadily increasing, and yes due to the latest acquisition of one Viktor Krum everyone with Puddlemere had had to take a considerable wage cut. But even if things  _were_  bad off what would Marcus Flint need with a flat in London?

" _His family's in Wales," Katie had said over folding laundry, "and the Falcons have started holding their practices near Salisbury. Alicia, the man could buy this whole street, I'm sure of it! Why would he even think of sharing a flat with two former school mates, both of whom he holds with distaste on a good day?! It doesn't make any sense." Alicia had simply shrugged._

" _Maybe he's lonely."_

"Most of the Flint business affairs take place in London." Alicia signalled the waiter for another drink—and Oh! Could he possibly 'Irish' it up for her? Thanks. "He wants to keep a closer eye on his brother, make sure the twat isn't sinking the family name into the gutter."

"Or squandering any dirty Flint money."

"Obviously. It would be a perfect arrangement for the three of you."

"Three—" Oliver sunk straight teeth into his plump lower lip, sitting forward quickly with a clatter of nondescript coffee cups; Alicia smirked to think he was holding back from cursing her into the ground. "What is this? Be kind to trolls day? What bloody game are you playing here Alicia?" The woman raised her cup in a mock toast.

"Did you ever tell Katie how Davies ended up with that broken nose?"

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Katie was more than a little surprised when Marcus showed up to see the flat a few days after she and Oliver had advertised their need for a roommate. At first she had mistaken his appearance for a social call—which in itself was an odd concept since Marcus had never set foot in their apartment before—and was almost unnerved at how civil Oliver was acting. That's what really got her eyes moving, back and forth from quidditch champ to quidditch: Oliver seemed to have expected Marcus' visit and had offered him a shot of whiskey as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

"I suppose utilities are included in the rent."

"Separate. Ya won't get a better deal this side of St. Paul's."

"It's not a very big place."

"Then go back to Swansea."

"Wait—What?" Katie shook her head, finally realizing the negotiations taking place in front of her. There was a low growl emitting from Oliver's lean chest, while Marcus looked incredibly smug, the large uneven teeth he went to such pains to hide in school pushed forward with his wicked smile.

Katie loved the flat and they needed the money. Marcus refurnished Richard's old room and immediately started leaving dirty dishes in the sink. Oliver hexed Flint's shoulder pads when Katie stepped out to have lunch with her father and the blond returned to find her collection of miniature snitches charmed and hiding in the bathroom. An uneasy truce was called after that.

**My Boyfriend's Back:**

Marcus Flint was…gay?

Katie was a smart girl and she usually picked up on things quickly. Usually. She had permanently ditched the Harpy's, taking to her trainer studies full time which meant schedualized hours at St. Mungo's and the trailing scent of liniment oils that clung to her robes. She'd receive a ministry certificate in June though and the Arrows had already flooed her about an interview, so even though there was a lingering feeling that 'Failure' would be attached to her name from now on in the quidditch arena Ms. Bell felt truly proud of her accomplishments. And accomplishment deserved respect.

But with all these odd hours and being out of the quidditch loop as it were, it had taken Katie a while to see that something was different about her roommates. Gone were the snide remarks over dinner and nasty arguments about who was wasting how much hot water in the shower. Gone were the frequent jinxes on various male undergarments where her own ended up attacked innocent bystanders or missing completely—though neither of them looked very sorry about that. Gone were the personal locked liquor cabinets—sometimes Katie thought she was living in a pub. But when she came home relatively early to what she assumed would be an empty flat only to find Oliver and Marcus watching football and easily commenting on the excessive amount of falls, Katie felt things slowly click into place.

It didn't bother her. Really.

Katie ignored the knee-jerk reaction when she walked out of the bathroom one morning and saw Oliver rest a hand on Marcus' chest out of the corner of her eye. She held her breath passing Marcus in the hall after noticing the scent of Oliver's cologne following the broader man. And when Oliver took her out under the improbable guise of finding a birthday gift for his mum—whose birthday wasn't until November—she listened supportively over rum and Cokes as he tripped around the issue that yes: he and Marcus were testing out the waters again and hoped she was comfortable with that.

Again?

Oh no. No she wasn't bothered. She had always wanted her best friend to be happy.

The next day Katie took Angelina up on a kick-boxing class, and when she felt teary-eyed in the changing room Katie made up a story about having recently visited her mother's grave. There wasn't much to push down. Really. Dreams no one else knew about and an ache below her ribs that had nothing to do with adolescent injuries.

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"… _and I'd toss him into the bloody Black Lake! He got five bloody OWLS last year, promoted to Captain, and now he's bloody impossible. Walks around the green houses_   _with his bloody nose in the air and then puts on these puppy eyes in Charms?! Bloody disgusting! Do ya know what I want?"_

" _I know I want you to shut it about Roger fucking Davies and get the hell out of my sight before someone notices the Quidditch Queen of Gryffindor Tower is out after curfew." Marcus spun the top off a flask of firewhiskey and tilted it back to meet his swollen lips._

_Forty fucking minutes. Thirty on shagging and touching and whatever else Wood wanted before he'd let Marcus put his cock in him, and then ten fucking minutes of listening to Wood rant about the faults of fellow quidditch captain Roger Davies. It wasn't for the first time that Marcus thought he'd be better off getting a girl. But he didn't want a girl._

_No. No, that wasn't exactly correct._

_Oliver rolled over on his side, admiring Marcus' profile with big brown puppy dog eyes of his own, noticing that the Slytherin's trousers were already back up over his hips. He sighed and reached for his own pants. He had gotten what he wanted. Oliver_ always _got what he wanted on occasions like these. It was time to go._

" _What. It's not like ya like him anymore than I do." Oliver pulled on his rumpled jumper, unmindful of his already damp and ruffled hair. "Bloody arsehole actually has a brain behind that barmy face. He could take the cup this year." Marcus laughed and Oliver loved it._

" _There's only one reason you hate Davies, Wood," Flint looked up with darkly bright knowing eyes then resumed his perusal of the trees behind the changing rooms as Oliver stiffened._

" _Don't be so rough with Katie tomorrow," Oliver finally replied, replacing his wand in his back pocket. "She's still sore from the last time. I don't like to feel her wince when I hug her." He watched as Marcus' jaw flexed, as he inhaled sharply but tried to cover it up by licking those delectable lips._

" _It's the only way you Gryff tossers will let me near her. But don't worry Wood;" Oliver caught the change in Marcus' tone, the bravado, "I'm sure you won't mind comforting Bell afterwards, soothing the tears as she wails about the evil Marcus Flint."_

" _Katie doesn't cry."_

" _Liar." They stayed in silence for a moment, each weighing the other's words and the words that weren't said but were clear nonetheless. Marcus pushed himself to his feet, dragging his white shirt off the ground and waving away the grass stains._

" _Do you know who I'd like to see cry?"_

" _Davies?"_

" _Davies."_


	6. My Boyfriend's Back…Again

Roger Davies was an utter bloody twat.

Oliver had thought that particular boil was banished from his life. Sure the bastard had achieved some level of fame with the Portuguese quidditch league, and yea he'd been  _Witch Weekly_ 's most eligible bachelor twice, and sure it was a bloody pain in the arse to run into the new Nimbus spokesman at cross-league ceremonies—but Davies stayed out of Oliver's life and that was the way the Scotsman liked it. So when best friend Katie Bell left her room Friday night looking like she had just stepped out of Madame Malkin's with a patented Angelina Weasley make-over, the dishes Oliver was attempting to charm clean splattered back into the sink and Marcus' whiskey failed to reach his mouth.

"Girls night out, eh Katie?" The raven haired chaser's eyes lingered far too long on their roommate's pale calf muscles. Long enough for Oliver to notice, even though his own eyes were fixated on Katie's semi-bared shoulders, the firm skin draped by sapphire blue robes. He stepped forward, hand automatically picking up a dry dish towel as if he simply needed something to hold on to.

"Nope." She was standing in front of the living room mirror adjusting stray locks of honey blond tresses. Most of the thick mass was in artfully designed curls atop her head and Oliver felt the urge to pull out each silver pin until it fell natural and free down her back, how she would wear it running through the halls at Hogwarts, how he imagined it looked in the early morning as she rolled out of bed. But he didn't. Marcus stayed seated on the couch. "I have a date."

"With who?!" The two separate voices cut and Katie turned away from the reflecting glass, staring at Oliver with something akin to hurt, and then looking at Marcus with eyes that clearly said he had no right to question any aspect of her personal life.

"Roger Davies. Not that it's any of your business," she replied quietly, but with strength, clasping a black clutch to her midsection. "He damaged a few ligaments at last years European Cup and he came in to have them examined last week. He ran into Da and we all had lunch together."

Oliver felt a lump of ice form in his stomach as Katie continued to gently describe the fortuitous meeting with Roger Wanker Davies and the posh new restaurant he was taking her to tonight. There would be a small gathering afterwards; Roger wanted to catch up on old times. Of course. Oliver wanted to beat something. He was a bloody idiot, thinking he could have everything—or as close to everything as he was likely to have. And here was Davies again to take it all away. He didn't see his best friend blush but from his place on the couch Marcus did. Katie Bell was angry.

"Don't wait up."

There was silence after the lone female left, Oliver eventually returning to the sink but unfocused enough to break two dinner plates before his spell finally held. Marcus watched his lover absentmindedly, running his tongue along the bottom edge of his mismatched teeth while considering the preceding events.

Katie Bell had been a ghost as well as a prominent figurehead in Marcus and Oliver's conversations since their midnight fumbling and awkward boyish touches back in third year. Oliver was her compatriot, her seeming rock, the one able to bask in her warmth and light and entreat upon her time as if it was his right. Marcus—ugly, mean, disappointing Marcus—had no such pleasure. From watching the petite blond sit patiently underneath the Sorting Hat, her blue eyes nervous but never scared, Marcus Flint had only ever had his imagination and a desperate want. And quidditch. With Oliver guarding the hoops the open air became Marcus' domain, the only place he could watch and touch and  _be_  with gentle Katie Bell—his complete opposite—without persecution or obstruction from her Gryffindor wardens. But Fate or Chance made it that neither man could have Ms. Bell fully. Oliver had her days constantly, and Marcus was slyly convinced he had her nights—though Wood always replied only in nightmares—but up until now both were convinced this apartment connection was they only way they could both share her. Now, when it was quite possibly too late, Marcus wasn't sure. Why would a woman about to head off for a romantic evening with a wealthy, supposedly handsome, quidditch star act the scorned poppet?

And hadn't he already beaten Davies out of the picture?

"Do ya know who I'd like to see cry?" Oliver piped up from the suds and cutlery.

"Davies?"

"Davies."

Another plate met its demise at the end of Oliver's wand.

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"… _with those big moon eyes of hers. Christ, she has the sweetest mouth. Knows what to do with that tongue too."_

_Grunts of masculine laughter and hands clapping covered backs; Marcus stayed leaning against the wall around the corner from the suddenly popular History classroom, silently counting backwards from one hundred to calm his heart and the blunt nails that were already digging into his solid palm. Ravenclaws were supposed to be clever but this scene wasn't original: teenagers blowing smoke about fake sexual acts, building themselves up while dragging the object of the conversation down. Fuck. Marcus had done that! This wasn't anything new! Then why had he expected better from Davies?_

_Perhaps Marcus had thought that anyone lucky enough to be favoured by Katie's intimate company, to actually be that close to her, touch her face and kiss those lips—yep, Oliver had been furious in his own way about that, revealing all to Marcus after overhearing Girl Talk in the common room—wouldn't dream of sharing with the common masses, of sullying and changing reality. Dreams were bad enough, as Marcus knew well; but in dreams anything goes, there is no censor, no consequences except upon awakening with your cock hard against your belly._

_When questions of Bell's chest came up the Slytherin had had enough and calmly made his presence known. A couple Ravenclaws, two Hufflepuffs, and a Slytherin occupied Davies' sharing circle. No Gryffs. The Weasels alone would have had Roger's head on a pike._

" _Davies," Marcus barked out, secretly memorizing the faces of each boy present in case other visits were called for. "Hooch called a meeting of team captains, something about less field time after hols." The crowd dispersed, wrangling promises for updates later from Davies, no one wondering why Flint was waiting around. Even Davies didn't raise any questions as the Slytherin captain walked with him down the hall, still chuckling about his forged conquests and Katie Bell's debauchery. The spell came fast, a muttered_  'Silencio'  _before Roger found himself face first into a stone wall, blood spilling over his impeccable school robes. It was a wonder Flint hadn't broken his entire face._

_He loomed over the Ravenclaw passively, watching the youth spasm and twitch and mutely scream. There was no need for growls or further physical action, and if Roger didn't see Madame Pomfrey soon he might drown on his own blood._

" _You're going to leave Bell alone Davies," Marcus stated, leaning one shoulder into the wall. "And I don't mean supplying your friends with wanking stories. And I don't mean I want you to break up with her next week. What I mean is that from this moment Katie Bell does not exist for you. You're allergic. She has the plague. You're suddenly engaged to you cousin from America—I don't care how you explain it to your house mates." Marcus kneeled down now to stare Roger in the eye. "But you are never to approach Katie Bell again. And if I hear of another of these little spill stories you'll never ride a broom again. Do I make myself clear?"_

_There was a slight nod of timid brown eyes, eyes that could never be confused with Oliver's deep, calculating, honest ones, and Marcus walked away, waving off the spell with a flick of his wrist._

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It had been a lovely meal. Poached salmon with a tangy mandarin sauce, more wine then she would actually drink, decadent chocolate cheesecake for dessert: Katie hadn't been to a restaurant like this in some time. Ever? Maybe not.

Roger was attentive but not smothering—though it bothered her how often he repeatedly quoted his own quidditch statistics, as if she wasn't aware of his success, and once or twice Katie imagined she saw a glimmer of a smirk but that could have been the candlelight. He was handsome. Roger's robes were high-end and he wore them well; his hair was deepest brown interweaved with shades of red and slicked back from his face, enhancing sculpted cheekbones and a smooth forehead. And he could dance—well waltz. A self-playing quartet was playing in the corner and Katie and Roger were now one of several couples taking advantage of the open space. If he held her a little too close for comfort Katie really couldn't complain and she couldn't deny the spark of heat as her mind calculated how long it had been since she'd last been  _touched_. Roger's hand on her back was decent but heavy, and he laughed easily as they moved to the music, suggesting they move on to the next event of the evening.

The next event was in a V.I.P. room down Soho way, tonight's patrons featuring other professional players along with several wizard celebrities Katie Would have assumed had better things to do with their time. She was initially tense to see the Harpy's general manager prancing around, but after introducing Katie to a minimum of attendees Roger whisked her away to the charmed balcony where waterfalls fell in abundance and the sounds of Muggle London were shut out.

"I've missed you Katie."

The blond couldn't have stopped her laughter even if she had wanted to. Miss her?! When? While flying around Europe surrounded by adoring fans and women who had their faces plastered over every magazine in the wizarding world? While being awarded Portugal's Order of the Bronze Bludgers—a play on words commendation for ballsy chasers—two seasons in a row? During that brief period where he was engaged to the bass player for the Weird Sisters?

"I've missed you Katie."

And then he was kissing her. He caught her right wrist and tugged—ignoring or not noticing her wince—Katie's torso bumping against Roger's seconds before he slanted his mouth over her glossed lips, infiltrating his tongue while her mouth tried to rationalize what the bloody hell was happening to it.

"Roger—Roger! Stop!" Katie pressed a hand to his chest, pushing sharply, eyeing him with a mixture of shock. "Roger…what brought that on? I don't speak to you in months and now you think you can—"

"Oh sod it Katie," Roger gave an annoyed chuckle, fingertips moving to grip into and pull at the folds of her dress, urging her back to him. "I know you well enough to know you didn't come here for tea and crumpets." Katie stepped back, pushing his hand away and giving her once-boyfriend an incredulous look. She had been having a good time, would probably have accepted a second date, but what—

"Don't you think it's about time you dropped the Quidditch queers and moved on with your own life?"

Katie didn't feel her face drop or the colour slip away. She didn't hear the shocked gasps of surprised onlookers who had wanted to peek at washed up quidditch hopeful Katie Bell as she threw herself at star Roger Davies. It wasn't until Katie was searching for taxi fare to a registered Apparating site that she noticed the blood on her knuckles and the bit of torn skin. And it wasn't until she had closed the door to her flat and sunk down to the floor that she realized she was crying.

Katie had hit him. She had hit him and didn't regret doing it, but why did it have to happen at all? Roger had made her feel good, had made her wonder, and now she was enraged at her bodies betrayal and how mad she had been at Oliver at the beginning of the night. And why was she crying over things that couldn't be helped?! Oliver loved Marcus, was  _with_  Marcus, and Marcus…loved Oliver, and it was all so **bloody**   **wonderful**!! Oh Merlin, she couldn't stop crying! She needed to stop crying. She needed to stop. She needed…

At some point strong arms wrapped around her waist, softly scooping her up, to let Katie rain more tears upon an unknown chest. She was being moved…a pillow under her head…thumbs resting on the bone of her instep. Silence.

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_He had thought he had given them the slip down by the portrait of Helga Hufflepuff but bloody hell those fourth year Slytherins were quick. Must have a Ravenclaw with them or something. The library was just ahead though and he could hide out in there until dinner and then he could go practice on the pitch until curfew…or until Charlie Weasley and his goons told him to piss off._

_The first time Oliver had owled his father about this particular problem with the female population at Hogwarts Mr. Robson Wood had laughed. There hadn't been any practical advice, only to enjoy the attention while he could. Mrs. Olivia Wood hadn't been much better, repeating over and over that Oliver must_  never  _under any circumstances hex a girl and that if he ever needed to have another chat about the birds and the bees, well then she'd be right there to listen. Thanks Mum. So twelve year old Oliver—who didn't want to kiss these ravenous she-beasts let alone have babies with them—made do how he could: by racing around the school when the girls started giggling too much and hiding like the scared gnome he was when the witches gathered en masse._

_He passed quietly by Madame Pince—though apparently not quietly enough as she stopped her quill scratches to glare at the thin brunette walking near her desk—a little out of breath and simply wanting a place to wait out the roving band of Scottish-obsessed witches. Oliver thought he had found a nook far enough away from the entrance—but not too secluded or away from the sharp ears of the hawk-like librarian in case he was walking into a trap—but he almost collapsed after rounding the turn, caught between Advanced Newt Magic and Broom Basics for Beginners: So You've Finally Stopped Sweeping._

_A girl._

_Bloody, bloody hell! Were they everywhere?! Did they purposely wait until Oliver's defensives were down just to pop out from nowhere and scare the blithering bogeys out of him?! Or was she just a scout, one of many set up around the castle on weekends sworn to report back to the head bee in case of Wood Sightings?_

" _Hello." Oliver jumped a bit. It was a small greeting given with a small smile, but the blond girl didn't seem to be in any hurry to rush off so maybe Oliver had jumped the gun at 'scout.' In fact she wasn't looking at him at all now, more interested in the old newspaper on her lap than the boy waiting to see if she would bite._

"' _Lo." Oliver tentatively stepped forward. He was still tired and this was still a decent hiding spot, and the spongy chair on the other side of the table looked really comfortable. "…What are ya reading?" She didn't giggle._

" _Oh," she put the paper down on the table so he could look as well. "I came here to work on my potions essay but someone left this here and…well I really needed to know how the Harpy's made out against the Cannons." She didn't whisper but her voice was soft and low anyways, holding vast untapped amounts of happiness in the gentle curvatures of her upturned mouth. Oliver felt himself smiling back; he couldn't help it. Now that he wasn't afraid of her actions he could think about who she was. The red and gold tie proclaimed her a Gryffindor and that hair—Yes! He remembered! She was a first year who had spent ten minutes having a conversation with the Sorting Hat—or so that was how the fifth years at his table had joked about it after the lengthy wait. Beets? Belt? What was her name?_

" _So how did they do? I'm a Puddlemere fan myself."_

_She nodded with another smile._

" _Of course you are."_

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Oliver awoke in the middle of the night to large, wet kisses dragging down his bare spine.

"You won't be going anywhere Wood," a deep voice rasped, weight settling. "And neither will she."


	7. Touched

The door slammed shut followed by a series of loud and varied expletives and the sound of a broom skidding across the kitchen floor, the metal accessories clinking on the ceramic tiles and she was sure something snapped against the fridge. The now solitary liquor cabinet was opened, the delicate glass doors and squeaky hinges giving it away, and a heavy weight dropped onto the apartment's new leather couch only for the occupant to let out another string of vulgarity. Katie pulled her ponytail tighter, closing her closet and the image of freshly ironed dress robes, not particularly wanting to step out into the living area and greet the surly male.

Puddlemere and the Falcons had had a game today, a game Katie had refused to attend on the grounds of emotional blackmail. Unless she went wearing a stitched together jersey of both teams emblems it would be a lose-lose situation on her part and Katie was not up to choosing sides right now. It was rather amusing. Anyone else would have claimed it was an easy choice: Oliver. It was always Oliver. Right? For some reason Katie didn't want to choose anymore. They were adults; school rivalry was a thing of the past.

Marcus was laying belly-down on the ox blood leather, an entire bottle of vodka on the coffee table with a sticky shot glass beside it. His face was pressed into one of Richard's forgotten chenille pillows, muffled 'fucks' and groans escaping through the side of his mouth. Katie sighed; it must have been a bad loss. How much could the Falcons have lost by to make Marcus try to destroy his own broom? She turned down the temperature on the oven and delicately cleared her throat. Well. Not so delicately. The larger man arched up, startled at the noise, and automatically pressed a hand to his back, a strangled groan torn from his throat.

"What the fuck Katie—"

"Marcus!" the blond moved towards the couch in two quick steps. "What happened?"

"…goddamn bludger..."

Katie narrowed her eyes, watching where the chasers fingers poked into his own back, how he tried to position himself on the couch to avoid putting excess weight on his middle vertebrates. The newly certified personal trainer headed back to the fridge, hauling out a half-full bag of ice, then returned to her impromptu patient.

"Try to stay still Marcus."

"What—Merlin, fuck!"

"Shh, you big baby!"

Katie peeled the hem of Flint's shirt out of his trousers, her cold fingers pushing the sweaty linen up his back as gently as she could, biting back a sympathetic pained hiss as a yellowed bruise came into view. "This is older than one game you git," she shook her head, angry that a so-called professional would leave an injury untreated. Focus, focus. She picked up the bag and laid it slowly upon the mark. "It'll dull the pain."

"Thanks Mother." Katie smacked him in the back of the head. He had no injuries there from what she could see. Ever so gently she assessed his bruise, moving her fingers around the discolouration to see how bad it actually was, and, deeming that while his kidney was unaffected, he probably had had deep tissue bruising as well and should have been going to a physical therapist as soon as it happened.

Sinking one knee into the leather beside his hip, Katie's palms pressed against Marcus' sides, eliciting a sound from the chaser that she couldn't distinguish but—as there were no protests—didn't allow to stop her. His back had pockets of knotted muscle, and as she leaned over, her cool hands kneading slowly into his tanned flesh, Katie wondered how Marcus could fly as well as he did in such a tense state. She had seen both Oliver and Marcus without shirts before—given their history and living arrangements it would have been hard not to—but this was new, and it was difficult for Katie to keep her thoughts under a medical distance this close to her roommate's bare skin. He had several largish freckles clustered together beneath his ribs, and although she refused to stop and map them individually—she couldn't; it wouldn't be right—Katie did spread her hands wide, thumbs angling in to sweep up the expanse of his back. It produced a sharp intake of breath that Katie did interpret as pain this time and automatically lifted her hands from Marcus' skin.

"I'm sor—"

"Don't."

Katie hadn't seen it happen, but her patient's hand was now firmly locked under her knee, pressing her leg into the couch, his knuckles a breath away from caressing the back of her jean-clad thigh. A shiver coursed though her as she fought to remain still, glancing from Marcus' shadowed face to the arm that disappeared beneath her line of vision to his bared flesh pinked from her ministrations. Katie swallowed and held her breath, fingers drawn back to his skin uncertainly. Marcus, for his part, seemed to be taking very controlled inhalations, and his hand was demanding, holding her leg, thumb pressing into the muscle of her calf. Katie removed he bag of ice. She moved the displaced condensation with three fingers, barely applying any pressure now, and moved the water like an artist on canvass, pressing down only when she reached those freckles.

She looked up to meet Oliver's bemused stare as he came in through the door, broom in hand and sports bag over his shoulder. Katie pulled herself away from the couch with a startled shake and widening eyes, hastily dusting off her hands but not knowing why.

"Oliver!" she smiled over-brightly. "How-how was the game?"

Oliver shut the door with his foot, his smile turning into a knowing smirk as he caught a glimpse of Marcus' head on the end of the couch. He dropped the bag next to his lover's to be tended to after his shower and butterbeer, and then leaned his Nimbus 2005 beside the door.

"Fine Katie," Oliver pulled her into a hug, kissing her loudly on the forehead, listening amusedly to Marcus' blind grunts. "Though if ya want to give someone a massage it should be me. I'm the one who lost ya know." Katie blinked, eyebrow rising, then looked between the two players.

"Oh."

"Aye. Even after that eighty point penalty Marcus gave us, Teague managed to catch the snitch before Hendrickson."

"Penalty?" Katie stepped away towards the oven. The lasagne needed to come out and Oliver really shouldn't be touching her right now.

"Aye!" he dragged out the affirmative and Katie could hear his fingers drumming happily against the leather. "It isn't everyday that a chaser steals his own beaters club and hits a bludger into the crowd."

"What?!" Katie looked aghast. "Marcus, what were you thinking?! Someone could have been seriously hurt!" But he was already lumbering off the couch, ignoring Oliver's manic grin, and poking his shirttails back into his trousers.

"I'll be in the loo."

Katie's lips thinned as she unconsciously pressed a clenched fist into the countertop, her cheeks flushing; Oliver wasn't to be persuaded and reached out to chuck her chin, his grin stuck in place. She ripped off her oven mitts and nearly threw them on the counter.

"Leave me a plate; I'm going for a jog."

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The blue porcelain was slick underneath his meaty hands but Marcus' grip was solid in his anger, his stance one of a beaten dog as he hunched over the bathroom sink, droplets of freezing water splattering onto the spotless surface from his chiselled face. His breathing was steady—the only thing he could control at the moment—and he watched blankly as puff spots of steam appeared and disappeared with each exhalation. What had he been thinking? What  _the fuck_  had he been thinking?

Marcus ignored the knocking.

He slowly brought his head up to stare bleakly into the circle mirror, pupils not distracted by the burnished gold frame. He could still  _feel_  her and if he concentrated he was sure he could recreate the movements of her cool fingers, the gentle push of her breath falling down as she investigated his body. Investigated. Ha! That was a bloody fucking laugh. She was trying to do something nice…only Ms. Bell never really had to try did she. She just was. And what had he done?  _No Katie, keep your goddamn hands where they are. Keep pressing, just like you've been taught._  And Oliver. Oliver.

"Marcus. Marcus! Open the bloody door ya twat!"

He swallowed thickly, reaching for a hanging terrycloth to scrub briefly across his face that unfortunately smelled of Katie's subtle cucumber and aloe soap. Christ. Flicking the nub lock, he twisted the handle to see a far too amused Oliver Wood. "What the hell was that all about?!" Marcus did the only thing he could: he dragged his former schoolmate into the bathroom with him. Marcus' palm—the same palm that had manhandled Katie minutes before—cupped the back of Oliver's neck roughly, practically pulling the smaller man into his mouth.

 _This_  was where he belonged. Oliver was his rock, had actually made him  _feel_  something other than bitter hate during seven years of boredom and fear, had accepted Marcus back into his life after seeming longer years of silence and competition and awful, awful words—and what had Marcus done?

"I…upset the balance." Marcus pushed his forehead against Oliver's, irritated that all the brunette could do was laugh and lick his abused lips.

"Is that what we're calling her now?" Marcus hissed and pushed his way out into the living room, grabbing the neglected vodka bottle and taking a vicious swig; muggle alcohol burned. He was less than consoled when the sound of urinating filtered out the bathroom door. And more laughter.

"I know ya better than ya think Marcus," the Scottish git called out. "I know yer not cheating on me—" the toilet flushed, taps were turned on, and Marcus' jaw tensed, shame flooding his face. "—and ya ought a know I won't be leaving ya for indulging in something we both want."

"And what the bloody fucking hell would that be?!" Marcus roared, throwing his shot glass to shatter on the front door, shards screeching across the floor. Oliver appeared in the bathroom doorway, a towel held lightly around his lean hips, an eyebrow raised at Marcus' frustrated _angry_  breaths.

"Katie left us dinner. Clean up that mess then get yer arse in here."

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Ankle, knee, hip joint. Lower back, shoulder blades, elbows, pumping fists.

Katie had gone for a jog, but before she had even made it down her street the asphalt was a blur beneath her blue-eyed gaze. Sneakers beat the pavement like a drum as the witch made a full run—inhale; exhale—and her entire body absorbed the punishment. A headache was building as her ponytail pulled incessantly downward; nails bit into the palms of her hands as if trying to tear away tainted skin; her lungs and throat were on fire. She didn't want to stop and she wanted to scream.

What the hell had she been thinking? Oliver was her friend, and then he had to come home from a lost game to find her feeling up his boyfriend?! Katie was disgusted with herself and disgusted with the idea that there were probably dozens of more freckles she could have counted if given more time. A frustrated growl slipped though her lips and she picked up the pace. She could do this for a long time; she had spent years on Hooch and Oliver's drills, then more years in professional training—Katie Bell could run all damn day if she wanted! Houses and muggle vehicles had no meaning; pedestrians on the sidewalk got out of her way, murmuring disparaging remarks about football dykes thinking they owned the streets.

Katie had to get away from men.


	8. Angelina, Domestic Goddess

Katie was sweaty and grimy and tired by the time she apparated into Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's yard, the thought of a hug having to wait until her next shower. Fred had bought a cottage in the country, trying to separate home-life from George and his joke shop on Diagon Alley, which was perfectly fine with his Amazon wife who liked the open space; her career as a Ministry agent only offered a tiny closet of an office. Katie had stumbled upon them having sex in the front parlour in the early days of their marriage and had thus learned her lesson of walking in through the front door. Studiously avoiding the parlour windows, Katie made her usual trek to the back yard, slightly alarmed when the loud voices coming from within rose in volume and were entirely distinctly male.

Angelina was seated on a granite bench down by her favourite plum tree—or maybe it was her favourite today because it was furthest from the cottage—and Katie was fairly dumbstruck to see that her extroverted friend was contentedly knitting. A large clump of orange wool was suspended off to the left, quietly disentangling itself while her long needles worked. Katie sent her friend a wry look as she clumped across the grass.

"Been kicked out of your own home Ange?" Katie sat down on the bench, then thought better of it and lay down on the stone; her feet screamed but she wouldn't make Angelina suffer any more than she had to when it came to Bell Stink. The dark haired woman's laughter was rich and heady as she cocked an eye towards the patchwork cottage.

"Fred's just going into George again," she shook her head, thick locks falling over her shoulders and vibrant yellow dress. "I don't know why they keep at it so long; no matter what Fred says it's not going to change anything." Katie's head turned, her pale cheek resting on the granite, a trickle of sweat rolling down her forehead.

"What's wrong with George?" As far as the blond knew the other Weasley twin was doing just as well as his married counterpart, happily living with long time girlfriend Luna Lovegood near the new offices of  _The Quibbler_  in Essex. To all accounts George was a work-a-holic and liked it that way, passionately devoted to the success of  _Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes_  as well as Luna's sometime ridiculous family newspaper. She heard Angelina sigh.

"Fred's convinced Luna's cheating on George." Katie's eyebrows quickly furrowed and she sat up.  _What?_  On George?! Happy-go-lucky, watch out what he serves you, George?! She glanced from Angelina up to the cottage.

"Why would Fred think that?"

"Neville."

"…Right. …Is she?"

It had been a running joke amongst their group, how George would stay home and keep house while Luna tracked down the wild Snarkle Doofus or whatever it was people were claiming had been sighted in the Highlands or deepest South America. She was a hands-on researcher, frequently disappearing for weeks on end while George held down the fort in London. In the last two years however, Luna had garnered a travel partner with George's blessing: Neville Longbottom. The herbology prodigy accompanied the eccentric Ravenclaw all over the world these days—bringing back more collections and first-hand sketches than she did of course, but well…there was always safety in numbers right?

"I think," Angelina began after a deep breath, her needles clicking "that they are participating in a relationship that mutually benefits the three of them." Katie felt her eyes widen, mouth open slightly.

"Excuse me?"

"George loves Luna" Angelina continued with an unneeded lowered voice. "He loves Luna but he also loves his job and the thought of crawling through bug infested jungles makes him sick. …He's not exactly put out that Luna expends so much energy on her trips with Neville."

Katie didn't know what to think. She didn't question how her friend knew such personal information about her brother-in-law, but she never would have imagined George encouraging the love of his life to seek physical attention from another man. And to be separated from each other all the time, to not know what the other half was doing in his absence?

Katie swallowed hard. When Oliver left the apartment from now on would he wonder if his best friend was putting the make on his boyfriend? Would he wonder if Katie was trying to seduce Marcus behind his back?  _No, no, I don't want to seduce bloody Marcus Flint! I can't do that! I don't…I wouldn't._ She looked down at the grass, wiping a hand across her nose and cheeks.

"Are they—Is George happy?"

"Very."

"…Ange. Are you glowing?" A knitted bootie was held in front of Katie's face.

"Angelina Weasley: domestic goddess. Have you felt like a goddess lately Kates? Because you certainly don't smell like one."

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When she didn't come home that night Oliver wrapped up the remains of the lasagne and went to bed with an over-sized cup of wine. Marcus was still being Marcus: sullen, broody, and quietly afraid that he was going to be pushed out of the flat on the same broom he rode in on. Oliver wasn't leaving Marcus; it was a non-option. But his self-destructive attitude and moody nature wasn't helping matters.

When she didn't come home the next evening Oliver knew she hadn't been back at all. Her bedroom door hadn't been moved an inch; there were no toast crumbs on the counter or buttery knives left in the sink—because Katie Bell didn't use her powers on mindless cleaning charms but preferred to leave the dishes as part of Oliver and Marcus' evening chores. By day three Marcus had called Alicia and Ter and broken three more glasses. Oliver had received two blowjobs and slept wrapped around the Chasers broad torso, knowing that Katie would have to be staying with Angelina if Alicia knew nothing. Which meant she knew everything. Since when did Alicia know  _nary_  a thing about  _everyone_  in her circle of friends? Oliver wasn't stupid, and he had noticed Katie's wardrobe missing key pieces in the last month or so. Like that large ratty fuchsia sweater she'd gotten for Christmas in sixth year with the white bleach stains on the shoulder. They'd spent many nights snuggled on the couch drinking cocoa, ignoring Richard and Edward's drama fest in the bedroom, her head cradled in his shoulder as they watched her beloved Muggle television.

Oliver missed that.

Then there was the mystery of her missing collector's editions of  _Quidditch Weekly_  and signed copy of  _Ponter's Swerve: Myth or Madness_. Katie didn't lend out her books and Oliver had had burned fingers to prove it.

He knew Katie would be with Angelina. She was too independent to go back to her father and who else would let her leave  _stuff_  all over their place? She was safe; they'd drink and chat and drive Fred up the wall and then she'd come back. Katie had to come back. Oliver had a suspicion she and Marcus had more in common than a love for fast brooms and death-defying techniques. At least he hoped that what he had seen in Katie's face as she leaned over Marcus was more than shock at Oliver's appearance. He had seen a vulnerable Katie Bell. He had seen wanting.

Well Oliver wanted. And he damn sure knew Marcus wanted. All they could do now was wait.

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Katie opened the door to the flat carefully Friday night. She knew their schedules, knew Marcus and Oliver's comings and goings, and Friday was the busiest day of the week. Oliver usually had an early lunch with one sister or another while Marcus took advantage of Ian's long weekends and dropped in on his mother to go over accounts. Puddlemere and the Falcons had extra long practices Friday evenings, given the fact that both teams employed a few near-alcoholics who wouldn't be fit for public viewing until Sunday at the earliest. Harpy's had one or two of that sort as well. Then it was out to the pubs until all hours; she had accompanied them numerous times, knew their drinking grounds. Once they had gone dancing with Alicia and Ter. It was nine o'clock and Katie should have been walking into an empty apartment.

"Ya have to admit Katie, this was pretty predictable." She sighed, dropping the borrowed purse on the coffee table and sitting down beside Oliver on the couch. He put down his butterbeer and smiled at her outfit.

"I finally had my interview with the Arrow's today," she smoothed out the transfigured suit Angelina had fished out of her closet, the lime and black ensemble flattering her darker skin better but Katie had been in a rush. "They want me in come in next week and have a talk with their current trainer. He's retiring at the end of the month—Oliver, please." Her friend had reached over and grasped her hand on top of the couch but Katie hadn't the heart to shrug him off; she linked and frowned and looked over into Oliver's brown eyes. "I'm so sorry Oliver…please don't—"

"What are ya sorry about Katie?" He cocked his head down, watching her from under thick eyelashes. Katie felt her cheeks reddening, her throat constricting. They had been together for so long—Katie and Oliver off another world-wind adventure, out of Hogwarts and living large. She had to be strong though. She had spent long enough talking to Angelina about this. It may not—No, it was not going to make her immediately happy; in fact Katie predicated weeks of mourning coupled with social isolation and a long stay with her father. Oh bloody hell, Katie did not relish explaining this move to her father.

"I…I can't stay here any more Oliver," she focused on one dimple and when that proved too hard moved her gaze to his shoulder. His grip became tighter. "I can't stay around worried that you don't trust me. I  _can't_  be here just waiting for you to h-hate me!" She had started to cry and that just made things worse. What was the point of being a successful woman if she couldn't even have an adult conversation with someone she cared about deeply without blubbering over her arguments for leaving him?!

Hands moved up to cup her face, thumbs wiping away the wetness, turning her head to face the man beside her.

"Katie why would ya say that?" there was an intensity to his voice as he forced eye contact. "Look at me Katie. Why would ya think that I could ever hate ya?"

"Oliver!" Katie sniffed loudly. "You saw me—with my hands all over M-Marcus!" She couldn't believe that Oliver could smile over that! "It's not funny! He's your boyfriend!"

"And ya were touching him."

"Yes!"

"Well I touch him all the time."

Katie jerked back with a startled cough, new tears forming as she looked at her friend with a complete lack of understanding. What did  _that_ have to do with anything? Of course Oliver should touch Marcus, would be touching Marcus. They were dating! They were lovers! To  _not_ touch Marcus would be…Oh she needed to get out of here now! Send Ali and Ange to get her things a box at a time if she had to. Katie couldn't do this to someone she loved!

She shot Oliver a sudden frightened glance and tried to pull away. He wouldn't allow it.

"Would it help if I told ya he wanted to touch ya too?"

"He does not!" Katie wanted the words to be firm, a denial of Oliver's obvious madness, but it sounded too much like a sob to her own ears. No man  _wanted_  to touch Katie Bell. She was boring; she was plain; she had no interest in basking in her pseudo celebrity status, and the only creature to show her the least bit of physical attention this year was so vile Katie wouldn't even sully her shoes to step on him!

Oliver's hands were back on her cheeks, his gaze softer and his fingers grazing against the loose locks behind her ears.

"Would it help if I told ya  **I**  wanted to touch ya?"

Katie sniffed again, eyebrows slowly furrowing while her head automatically tilted.

"…What?"

His lips were gentle on her own, testing the waters, a slight press of flesh against flesh, and then another. Katie's eyes stayed stained and open. It was a wet kiss. It wasn't sexy or sensual or even pretty, but when Oliver's tongue traced a path along her bottom lip all of Katie Bell's barriers crashed around her. She made a noise; it could have been a moan or a whimper or a high-pitched yelp, but whatever it was it made Oliver surge against her. His hands pushed into the confines of her up-do, cradling her skull as Katie's arms wrapped vice-like around his shoulders. He was using his weight to push her back into the couch while Katie was trying to pull Oliver into her chest by his white polo shirt, kicking off her shoes in a rush to feel her legs wrapped around her best friend's body.

Her blazer was stuck around her shoulders, fabric biting as Oliver's fingers pushed down to feel more of her: her collarbone, her chest, the slope of her left breast. His mouth passed across her wet cheeks, down to lick and suck at the tender skin below her ear, making Katie gasp while her palms raced up over the plains of his back.

_His back…I'm touching his back…_

"Oh no," Katie blinked, forcing her eyes open, forcing the fog of lust back and suddenly pressing her hands against Oliver's chest. "No, no Oliver. Oliver I can't—we can't do this. Oliver—" Their lips met again, slick. "Oliver," she pushed again. "Oliver, Marcus."

Their breathing was ragged, an explosion of pent of emotion now forced back into smaller packages. Oliver's chestnut head lay heavy on her clothed shoulder, eyes closed as he breathed in her scent over and over again. Katie's eyes reached up to the ceiling, one hand clenched painfully into the padded arm of the couch, wondering how the bloody hell she had ended up in this position.

"Is he—?"

"He's visiting his mother tonight," Oliver panted.

"I can't stay here any more Oliver."

"Ya wouldn't hurt me and now ya won't hurt him?" Katie swallowed and shook her head stiffly, not wanting to rub her chin on Oliver's temple but failing. She left it there with a pained sigh.

"I won't choose Oliver. I won't be the Other Woman. I won't hurt  _myself_  because  _I_  deserve better. And Marcus and you do too." She felt Oliver's arm move around her waist in what reminded her of years of reassuring embraces.

"I don't want ya to choose Katie," Oliver raised his head from her shoulder to give Katie a soft, meaningful look, their faces a wands width apart. "I wouldn't make ya choose, because above anyone Katie Bell, ya deserve to be happy."

"I—I have to go Oliver," Katie slipped off the couch, drawing a hand over her mussed locks. "I can't stay here—"

"Tonight." Oliver finished her sentence from his seat on the couch, a tone of finality in his voice, as if he understood but wouldn't let it end there. "Ya'll stay with Ange and Fred yea? Not your Da?" Katie stopped and licked her swollen lips, her hand gripping he door knob. She had thought she knew how this evening was supposed to wok out. She was supposed to be leaving with her possessions, a check for her end of the lease left on the coffee table. Oliver was not supposed to be here and he definitely wasn't supposed to have made her admit certain things, if only to herself.

Katie loved Oliver. She had loved him back in school, had loved him as he went through legions of Quidditch groupies and sex pots that looked nothing like her, had loved him as he loved Marcus who looked nothing like those sex pots either. And she  _wanted_  Marcus. She wanted Marcus and what the Falcon's chaser had. She wanted them both.

"Tonight. I'll stay with Angelina and Fred tonight."

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_Exploding snap cards lay spread out over the floor of the quidditch broom shed, mixed with chocolate frog wrappers and the discarded rejects of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans. It was the start of fourth year and the two boys sat leaning against the back wall, the smell of new paint barely wafting under their bloodied noses. A small nicked bottle of firewhiskey lay between them, the cap on tight as the smaller boy looked slightly green, the larger one still surly but contained, the alcohol loosening his tongue._

"… _glad he's dead. I heard her crying again over the summer and I…I wanted to hit her. She doesn't know I heard of course but I wish she'd just stop!" Marcus threw another card on the pile, grateful for the loud bang and for the fact he wouldn't have to notice Oliver for the span of a few seconds._

_Aurelius Flint had been a bloody bastard of the first degree. Marcus had grown up with rumours, knew the truth from the lies, and he knew even at fourteen that there was more truth than lies when it came to his father. Death Eater: yes. Abusive husband and father: yes. Murderer: yes. And not just of Muggles. And not just in the employ of You-Know-Who. Marcus' mother had been married before—it wasn't spoken of to him but he had overheard conversations—and only for a few months. Mr. McCormack Teague's death had been ruled an accident but that wasn't true. And Yelena Flint kept her bruised mouth shut._

_Aurelius was an obsessive man people would say, a passionate man. Marcus saw fists and paranoia and at a young age learned to steer clear when Aurelius sought out his mother. There were so many things very wrong with his parent's marriage…_

" _Did Julian and Ian come back from Durmstrang for hols?" It was a drunken courtesy on Oliver's part and Marcus knew it, a section of his mind sorry for causing the Slytherin-Gryffindor brawl that started in DADA and finished with the two boys duelling in the halls of Hogwarts._

" _I got to visit Julian. He has a place in Norway now—not permanent, but his girlfriend's there. Did I tell you he had a girlfriend?"_

" _No."_

" _She's beautiful." Marcus exhaled a long burp and wiped a hand over his mouth, scraping his knuckles over the edges of his large, uneven teeth with a hiss. "Julian says so. And they're happy." He was quiet then, staring blankly at the old shin guards and quidditch pennants stuffed into the corner._

" _I went to Ireland with Katie and her Da in July. There was an exhibition match between that new team out a Dublin and Sweden." Marcus lowered his eyes, internally growling at his weak trembling jaw._

" _I want to be happy Oliver."_

" _Yer not happy?"_

" _I want to be happy."_

" _Me too."_


	9. Back in the London Groove

Katie came back to the flat the next night. Oliver had put on a roast and the three of them sat down together to eat without mention of the events that had led to Katie's brief separation or the activities she and Oliver had almost taken part in the evening before. In fact Marcus treated her cordially, normally, and asked nothing untoward except to wonder a little salaciously whom she had been spending her time with for the last week. It was as if Oliver had said nothing at all to his lover and Katie didn't know what to think about that.

Oliver had said he wouldn't make her choose; Katie had decided that she would rather leave than cause either of them or herself pain but for the first time in her life she had trusted someone because they offered what she desperately wanted. Had she jumped too soon? Had Oliver simply said Marcus wanted her as well to calm her, to make her more open to his advances? No. No she couldn't start thinking like that; Oliver was not using her.

They went about their lives as usual, even went out to dinner with Alicia and Ter. Watching the married couple and their sickeningly displays of affection would not have made Katie pick viciously at her napkin under the table had the meal taken place a month ago but now Katie found herself growing irritable around Alicia and Ange, uncharacteristically bitter over their significant others and the beautiful, stead-fast relationships both had formed. Like Oliver and Marcus. She developed a taste for the aged brandy Marcus would bring back from his frequent trips to Wales; he didn't protest the disappearance.

Katie received a bittersweet surprise then, days after taking over as the Arrows' official personal trainer, a night when Marcus had gone to a meeting with his mother and the CEOs of Flint Enterprises after ordering a delicious dinner of buttebeer battered cod and shrimp platter—because Merlin knew the man could not cook to save his life—when Oliver stopped her with a soft, lingering kiss as she popped out of her bedroom, ratty fuchsia sweater and all.

"Oli—" she sputtered, before his right hand found her waist, gently pulling her into his chest and effectively silencing her. He wore and orange dress shirt and jogging pants, the cotton sleeves rolled up and the closures only superficially buttoned. Katie's fingers skimmed upwards in her distraction, her arm resting around Oliver's shoulder with a sigh while she moved her mouth away. Oliver ended with a kiss to her cheek, rubbing his own against the spot, and Katie felt something being pushed into her free hand. She looked down at the folded cloth—or at least she though it was cloth. The material was a slivery-grey, and yet held more colours than that within its shimmering, glossy folds. She met Oliver's eyes.

"What is it?"

"It's an invisibility cloak," he whispered into her hairline, dropping his lips onto her forehead. Katie's eyes widened and she pulled back, more questions forming on her tongue. Oliver shook his head and continued. "Let's just say Harry finally decided to help me be devious—No, Katie!" he laughed at her reddening cheeks and rapidly hardening stare, his hand gripping her hip. "He thinks I want to steal secrets from Whitby's team manager." Katie blinked and looked down again. She'd never seen anything like it— _heard_  about such things yes, but to actually have one in her grasp…

"We have it for a week. Well  _you_  have it for a week. I want you to wear it Katie." Katie let the fabric slide though her fingers, taking the weight of it, and slipped it over her shoulders with a startled laugh. She couldn't see herself! "I want ya to wear it in my room." Her blue eyes were confused as she looked down at where her feet should be then up into the sculpted lines of Oliver's face. "I want ya to see Marcus and myself together." Katie's hands quickly came down from where she held the cloak clasped at her throat.

"What?" Katie shook her head; Oliver didn't need to answer. What sort of game was this? Be a bloody ghost in the bedroom and pander to some voyeuristic kink?! Her lips thinned as she folded the cloak over her arm. "Does Marcus know about this? Oliver—does Marcus know about us?" She watched her best friend and her heart slowly sank; he wasn't answering quickly enough. He caught her arm with a jerk before she could escape back into her bedroom.

"Katie listen to me—" The former chaser tried to pull her arm back but only succeeded in jerking Oliver closer.

"I told you I wouldn't be the Other Woman Oliver!"

"Christ Katie, I don't want ya to be!" His arms wrapped around her middle, forcing her to listen, while Katie turned her head away. "I want the three of us together, but I want ya to know exactly what it is ya'd be getting into. I know yer not a virgin—" she made an angry noise but he kept going. "—but ya've never been with two men. And ya haven't even seen  _me_  naked yet, let alone Flint." Katie stayed stiff in Oliver's arms but she had to accept the truth of his words. A single one-night stand, some light petting, and dozens of disappointing kisses: it wasn't a very impressive sexual record. But why the secrecy? It wasn't as if she was scared of a naked Oliver and Marcus, far from it.

"Why the cloak Oliver?" she asked quietly. "Why do we have to lie?" His Keeper's fingers with the smooth nails tipped her chin and he offered a quirky grin.

"I don't think Marcus would be able to keep his hands off ya if he knew ya were watching us," he raised an eyebrow while Katie simply rolled her eyes. "Us men naked and ya just sitting, rubbing yer legs. Drooling—"

"Oh sod off!" Katie pushed his shoulder roughly but couldn't stop the chuckle from bubbling out, or the smile from replacing her thin-lipped grimace. Oliver laughed with her, his embrace loosening but Katie didn't move away. "I want ya to be comfortable Katie," Oliver smiled, running a hand over her long locks. "When we're really together for the first time I want ya in control, to understand the…mechanics." Katie gave Oliver a look and snorted, even though she felt two spots of heat come to her cheeks.

"I know the mechanics Oliver."

"We'll see."

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Angelina Weasley would have made a wonderful ambassador. Intelligent, strong, talented, and utterly beautiful—which didn't hurt—the Gryffindor princess could walk into any situation, any social gathering with ease. She prided herself on being able to read those around her, reacting to their emotional states. It was how she became Molly Weasley's favourite daughter-in-law after all; knitting lessons hadn't taken too much of the Ministry agent's time; there was compassionate listening over Earl Grey that Angelina kept down without so much as a twinge at the bloody awful taste; she let herself be introduced to over thirty years of Weasley Family photos. Molly Weasley loved her family above all things. What she didn't have was an easily accessible person who didn't know all the history already to explain it all to. Angelina became that person.

At first it was only to ingratiate herself: a new bride pleasing her mother-in-law. There had also been an element of unease in her actions, as no matter what her beloved Fred said to the contrary Angelina worried his parents would think her dark complexion just wouldn't fit into their pale family photographs.

But George was her schoolmate, her friend and team mate, so when she had Apparted to his flat in Diagon Alley last year with a fresh pumpkin pie and two bottles of butterbeer it had only been to tease and support a man whose girlfriend was gone on another tour of Southern Libya to search for Talking Gibbles, not to win points in the eyes of anybody or further diplomatic relations. She had expected to see the twin going over accounts or trying out a new product on himself. The Family often worried over George's apparent obsession with work as money had never been something the Weasley's had lived for before. Angelina didn't expect to Apparate into his living area to find boxers draped haphazardly over the side table, two empty bottles of wine, and enthusiastic grunts coming from the single bedroom. Male grunts. All male grunts. And an explosive "Fuck!" in a voice she had never heard before.

"George?" Angelina was not a wilting violet and would not shy from confrontation, especially when faced with the rising realization that her friend was making a terrible mistake. "George!" There were muffled voices, thumping feet and a swish of fabric, and Angelina was suddenly faced with a flushed-face, toga-wrapped, George Weasley.

"Ange! What—Hi! What the bloody hell are you doing here?" He had his back pressed against his door, and she could guess he was wondering whether or not to stay guard to the bedroom or come forward to greet her proper and therefore distract his sister-in-law from what lay within. Angelina placed her offerings of comfort on his counter near the sink, a steely glint to her eye. Once you got past the eccentricities Luna Lovegood was a sweet, capable woman; it would be like kicking a puppy.

"Who's in the room George?" she got right to the point. "Because as far as I knew Luna wasn't coming home for another two weeks, you bloody bastard!"

"Ange it's not what you think," he stepped forward then quickly jumped back, avoiding her stabbing fingernails. The fact that there was a man in George's room right now didn't mean anything to Angelina. Did Fred know about this? Bill? Ron?

"Not what I think?! George, I don't care if you're fucking a hippogriff. The only other person who should be in your bed is your girlfriend! If Fred ever did this to me—"

"Fred would never do this to you because he  _wants_  to have sex with you. Lots of sex. All the time." Angelina's eyes bugged out as she swallowed a retort, hands on hips.

"What?" She watched George press his hands to his eyes then pad barefoot over to his sofa—the cloud print obviously a Luna choice, the whimsical piece at odds with the rest of the very 'George' décor. His shoulders were slumped and he inhaled several breaths before starting again.

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" _And how do ya suggest we keep her, oh Master Flint?" Oliver rolled over, feeling his feet tangle in the sheets as Marcus repeated his ministrations down his lean chest, tongue swirling around Oliver's waking nipples before moving down. The Keeper sighed with amusement and stretched, pushing his fingers through the dark mop of his lover's hair._

" _It shouldn't be difficult for you," Marcus mumbled, rubbing his stubbled chin on Oliver's stomach. "She loves you. Ms. Bell wouldn't leave_ you _in a million years." Marcus' mouth moved around Oliver's navel before Oliver could stop him, fingers tracing the Slytherin's jaw._

" _She wants ya Marcus. I know it." There was a snort and Oliver's legs were spread. He let his weight sink into the bed, digging his head into the pillow in anticipation of Marcus' warm mouth. It was the middle of the bloody night, and while Oliver didn't usually appreciate bringing dragged out of a solid sleep—especially after watching the object of their mutual affection waltz out to meet Roger Wanker Davies—but this was more than a satisfactory recompense. Hot breath moved along his upper leg, meaty fingers massaging over hair and flesh and muscle._

" _I think you need to call in a favour from your favourite Seeker." Oliver bucked, head jerking up._

" _Yer about to suck me off and ya want to talk about bleedin' Harry Potter?!" Oliver ended his outrage with a shriek as Marcus bit down on his inner thigh. "Watch the fucking teeth Flint!" he hissed, straining his neck to look down at a smirking Marcus._

" _We wouldn't want to wake up Katie, Wood," Marcus licked a line up Oliver's shaft, watching his lover turn into an abused puddle. He was suddenly stoic. "Not yet anyway. I know you wouldn't cheat on me Oliver, but for this to work she has to want us both. To love us both. I'm not convinced I currently fit in with our happy little family."_

_Oliver released a drawn out sigh, shrugging aside the searing lust and sudden irritation that Marcus had awoken him to and actually tried to concentrate on what his lover was saying. He knew well Flint's insecurities, the life he wanted to hide from his family which was also the life the Slytherin didn't believe he deserved. Such arguments to debate the contrary had driven Oliver and Marcus apart in Hogwarts, and Oliver had no wish to discuss old news._

" _What do ya want me to do?"_


	10. Adventures in Bedroom Sitting

Oliver and Marcus were busy the entire week, just as Oliver had promised.

Monday, Puddlemere played Heathrow and the couple went to Trenton afterwards for an exclusive dart tournament between the witches of Knockturn Alley. It surprisingly got Marcus all hot and bothered. Katie spent the evening fruitlessly discussing nursery wallpaper patterns with Angelina and Alicia, as the conversation inevitably turned to either Ter's corruption of Alicia with the Higgs' immense family fortune or Katie's apparent absolute necessity to get laid. The blond had three glasses of red wine and wondered out loud why Angelina received a free ride tonight just because Fred Weasley knocked her up.

Tuesday, Katie didn't get home until two o'clock in the morning after a brutal match between the Arrows and Sussex; two chasers and the team's mascot had required stitches and deep tissues massages. She'd staggered in to find her boys still up and a warm meal on the table. They'd watched a rerun of  _Coronation Street_  and Katie fell asleep between them both on the couch, her hand in Oliver's and her head sliding down the leather towards Marcus' shoulder, sex the furthest thing from her mind.

Wednesday, Puddlemere and the Falcons had practice and Katie took out the cloak from her closet for the first time since Oliver had passed it to her. She walked around the apartment, trailing the shimmering material behind her like a matador in a tank top and exercise shorts, watching how the unbelievably thread-less material caught the overhead lights and let them go just as easily. She stood at the entrance to Oliver's bedroom and looked in, inhaling the scent of his indescribable cologne, and grinning at his ironed pants in the corner—a habit he had picked up from Percy Weasley he had once assured her. Oliver's desk, on the other hand, was a clerk's nightmare, and his bed was unmade. Katie went to Marcus' room next and bit her lip as she opened the unlocked door. The bed sheets were tucked with Auror-like precision and binders were stacked neatly on his mahogany tables. Some enlargement charm was at work here as the room was suspiciously bigger than either of the other two. Three calendars decorated his walls, along with an expensively framed photo of his sister and a newspaper clipping announcing Julian's death. It was little wonder both men spent most of their time in Oliver's space. Katie swallowed and returned the cloak to her room, changing into something casual, and flooed George about going for a pint.

Thursday was utter chaos, as Katie had promised to visit her father while Ter had invited them all to another extravaganza fete on the Thames. Oliver's mum made the decision for them as she paraded through the door at six with enough baked goods and slaughtered poultry to feed Hagrid three times over. She kindly ordered the boys to hand wash the dishes while she and Katie had a friendly chat about her eldest daughter Dolores and  _the_   _oh so wonderful_  engagement that was likely to be announced in the next week or so. Katie hadn't even known Oliver's big sister was seriously seeing anyone. Marcus did not looked pleased after Mrs. Wood's exit and Katie retired early, quickly placing silencing charms around her room as she felt a row coming on between the professionals.

Friday once again brought the extra long practices and Katie stayed late for a session with one of the Arrows substitute Chaser who had endured a wrist injury similar to herself back in his days at Durmstrang. He had a stocky build and an almost blinding shock of white-blond hair which was not styled and therefore—along with his nice smile and lack of masturbatory comments—placed him in the Non-Prat category. They shared some friendly banter but Katie couldn't help but feel relief when he pulled out a picture of his wife and little girl and proceeded to expel their virtues for the last fifteen minutes of their session. Flirtations would not do among team mates. A personal philosophy of Ms. Bell's. However when his friend appeared to pick the Chaser up, Katie couldn't help but appreciate the man's laughing eyes and crisp good looks and…

"Nott?" He laughed at her astonished expression, the Arrows player not getting the joke.

"Bell! I was afraid you wouldn't recognize me."

She returned to an empty flat, face flushed, and wondered if she should have accepted Theodore's invitation for chips and drinks. Harry was expecting his cloak back on Sunday and tonight had been the first time this week where Katie had felt even the least bit sexual. She knew that wasn't why Oliver had suggested she don the garment but Katie knew that  _was_  why she slipped out of her uniform and knickers and danced around the apartment with only the cloak wrapped around her pale flesh. She giggled at her refection in the bathroom before concealing herself from the glass; she stood boldly in front of the living room window, goose bumps running down her arms and a wide grin on her invisible face, breasts outthrust towards the world that didn't know plain Katie Bell could ever revel in her own sensuality. She didn't know it herself. Had this occurred simply because an old school mate had shown an interest? Or because Katie had spent the night caring for uninteresting bodies with the knowledge that at least one willing male was at home waiting for her.

Except there was no one waiting for her. And when she went to sleep with a cool hand over one breast and another between her thighs there was still no one waiting for her.

Saturday, Katie went for a jog. She had made pancakes, her body still thrumming from the natural high of the evening before, and Oliver and Marcus had entered the kitchen from separate bedrooms. Oliver had given her a one armed hug and a quick kiss to the forehead as she stood over the burners, frying pan sizzling with fresh butter, stealing a piece of toast in the process before heading to the bathroom, a bandage wrapped around his hand. Katie had felt the other presence behind her, silent, and she turned to give him a good morning smile, a happy look while she stood in the kitchen wearing leggings and a long t-shirt. He had a split lip and Katie frowned, words of concern on her tongue as Marcus moved away, mumbling about  _The Prophet_  and late delivery.

So Katie jogged around the block and through the park and thought for the second time that Oliver had lied to her. He hadn't told Marcus about kissing her or about the cloak, and now the blond was faced with the thought again that Marcus didn't want her at all. No, they had never been very demonstrative. Oliver was Marcus' lover; Katie was Oliver's best friend. Katie and Marcus were…roommates? Friends? She didn't like either of those labels. They may be true but that didn't mean she had to like them. And while Marcus didn't give out hugs as a greeting he certainly had never walked away as if her presence were an annoyance to his perfectly planned life.

The flat was empty once again. Katie took a leisurely shower and demanded her brow relax as she popped over to Bell Manor to apologize for ducking out on Thursdays visit. She knew Mr. Bell wasn't fooled by her overly-cheery jokes but couldn't bring himself to ask about her personal life or professional life and thus watched as Katie ate pound cake while he commented on the latest shake ups at the Ministry. She didn't know how to feel after kissing him and Eely goodnight. Part of Katie was hurt her own father couldn't pluck up the courage to ask if his adult daughter was lonely. Another part was strangely grateful she hadn't had to explain she was in love with two men who seemed to be in a perfectly committed relationship themselves.

She leaned against a light post near the Apparition point and kicked a small stone, her forehead tense once again. She kept running around in circles: Oliver was lying to her; Oliver wasn't lying; both Oliver and Marcus wanted her; she was being played a fool and simply an object to spice up their already rigorous sex life—neither male was incredibly adept at silencing charms  _all_  the time and Katie certainly wasn't deaf. Katie shook her head, feeling her long ponytail hit one shoulder then the other. She didn't like this train of thought at all and couldn't let herself follow it either.

Not with only one night left.

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" _Not too subtle, your Mother eh."_

" _What? Did ya want a written invitation to the wedding?" Oliver grinned, slipping a stack of plates into an above cupboard. "I'm allowed to bring a guest ya know." Marcus wasn't smiling, and water dripped from the dish cloth clenched within his right hand, the tendons of his forearm visible from where his rolled shirtsleeve bared tanned skin and coarse hair._

" _Will I even make the list between the Wood and Bell families?" he asked bitterly. "A Slytherin and Death Eater by association? Doesn't sound like someone who'd attend the Gryffindor marriage of the year." Oliver reached for a handful of forks, opening the cutlery drawer with an incredulous look at his partner._

"… _Did ya take a bludger to the head last night? Dolores' bloke was in Hufflepuff--"_

" _I'm not a fucking moron Wood!" Marcus growled, pushing Oliver roughly into the counter with wet hands, the drawer slamming shut by Oliver's midsection. The Keeper turned around, his eyes hard as he pushed back._

" _What the bloody hell is wrong with ya?!" Both men stood toe-to-toe in the now all too small kitchen, blazing emerald eyes meeting almost black ones. Oliver's brows were furrowed in confusion while Marcus' jaw was locked, anger rolling down his tall frame to build in his stone-solid fists._

" _That little show I just witnessed." The words were gritted, low, "for whose benefit was it? I doubt it was code for Bell to get ready for the next hideous bridesmaid's dress that'll be thrown at her. No," Marcus attempted to intimidate, stepping closer to Wood but getting nothing in return but hard nosed stubbornness. "I think that was_  Mummy  _telling her only son to make her a grandmother already and stop playing around with his beautiful blond roommate!"_

 _There was a horribly strained silence while Marcus waited for the hit that never came. The word 'grandmother' had drained the colour from Oliver's face but his dark eyes flashed, the chocolate brown now reminiscent of a loch with creatures from the deep waiting to haul the unaware to a very painful death. And Marcus wanted it. He wanted to feel_ something _other than the dread that had been building in his gut for the past half hour._

" _Are ya finished Flint?" Oliver bit out, giving a short defiant nod. "Are ya fucking well finished?"_

_And with nothing left to say Oliver stormed into his bedroom._

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Katie had bitten off two nails before she heard them come home. It was late, and she could feel an aura of sleep around her head, as if she had drifted off for ten minutes and hadn't even noticed. The living room was alive with noise after the quiet, dull hours that had passed away the afternoon. The front door was kicked shut and Katie was sure she heard one Quidditch-muscled body being smashed between it and another equally magnificent form. Their leather couch was nudged at least a foot—or so the screech across the floor relayed—and the slap of jackets hitting the floor made her jump, even before the two men found their way into Oliver's room.

Katie daren't move, daren't breathe. She bit her lip, arms wrapped around her middle as Oliver and Marcus tumbled to the bed, hoping to Merlin that a throwaway piece of clothing didn't find it's way aimed towards where she sat in Oliver's desk chair. It wasn't the cloak draped over her head that had Katie's cheeks blazing red; it was the feeling of the forbidden, that she really shouldn't be here watching such intimacies in secret, that she really shouldn't be enjoying watching Oliver laying over Marcus, hip to hip, pelvises grinding. And when she saw Oliver softly brush a calloused thumb over Marcus' bottom lip, then lean down to kiss the healing cut before another round of hands and tongues and legs began, Katie had never wished to be anyone else more in her life. Marcus' hand was heavy on Oliver's arse, kneading, griping, searching between the man's corduroy-encased thighs; Oliver's were busy making quick work of shirt buttons, pulling out the fabric from Marcus' trousers, then—finding the task too cumbersome—suddenly began to rip and tear, flat clear buttons popping off to reveal defined muscles and a line of dark hair to both eager gazes.

Belts were removed, zippers undone, shirts thrown aside, and Katie was leaning forward, the taste of blood on her worried lip. At first she had believed it better to stand, to hide in the corner and turn her face to the wall if things became unbearable to watch. Now Katie was thankful for the chair; her limbs tingled, knees feeling useless beneath her pyjamas, nipples tight beneath her loose Quidditch tee. Marcus was moving over Oliver now, a panther in human guise as movements became much more deliberate, as 'just feeling' became deep caresses and glides over toned flesh. She watched the indentation of his spine dip and curve; the bruising vanished entirely while Katie remembered the sensation of her fingers on said skin.

A hoarse groan divided her attention as her gaze was drawn to Oliver, his bared upper torso not unfamiliar to her eyes but—if visible—her pink cheeked blush would have been easily evident, as evident as her best friend's arousal which Flint was currently stroking under the corduroy, through the confines of cotton boxers. Katie brought a hand to her mouth, horrified that she had taken a breath to yell "Take off your bloody pants!" but her own teeth had saved her, biting her knuckles instead. She would have sworn Marcus had taken Divination as his fingers were suddenly hooked in Oliver's belt loops, Oliver lifting his hips to comply as the pants were dragged down his legs, boxers a forced companion, and Katie saw Oliver naked for the first time. It was all flashes though: at first the stiffened organ standing amongst a gathering of coarse brown hair, then hidden as Marcus once again lowered his girth, mouths clashing amidst fevered grunts and gestures which indicated Marcus had better take care of his own pants quickly.

Katie had never thought Marcus ugly—well, perhaps after he broke her ribs a second time, yes she had said a few ugly things in private then—and as he stood to push the trousers and underwear aside while Oliver gripped himself with short tugs, Katie was amazed that anyone would ever think him that. He had always been active, pureblood genes and a love of Quidditch keeping him from cowering from the harsh rumours of adolescence that would have made some solitary and soft. Marcus Flint wasn't soft. Again, no Adonis, never would be—but Katie let her blue eyes devour all the same, flickering over the warm stomach and rough knees, the dark hair that only emphasized  _the Male_  and not the sexless roommate she had once endeavoured to think of him as being. He was thick: ribbed flesh and a purpled head that lay heavy between his thighs.

Oliver had fished something out of the bed table drawer. Katie swallowed. Lube—it was lubricant, right? Women had a natural slickness and men had…lube? Oh Merlin. Did she really need to see this? She hadn't lied to Oliver; she knew the mechanics of guy-on-guy sex, and was it so really different to know the technicalities than to watch the act itself?

_Was it so different to read about sex than to feel Sebastien inside me?_

Questions were useless at this point; Katie knew she wasn't going anywhere.

They fell upon each other again, hands purposeful as they lifted and positioned and gripped, and Katie felt her mouth fall open, knuckles dropping away, as Marcus' hips thrust. Oliver's fingers were twisting, dragging through Marcus' hair, holding his head tightly as a hissed groan was wrenched from his lips. The Keeper had one leg wrapped around the Chasers hip, the other spread wide and lower back arched at an odd angle while his head was both trying to press back against the pillows and mash Marcus' mouth against his own. Katie watched the muscles in Marcus' legs and backside ripple as a rhythm was created, the wet sounds doing as much for her over-driven senses as the visual on the bed before her.

A new vocalization hit the walls as Marcus lifted his weight, a hand slipping between their bodies to stroke Oliver with a firm grip, thumb pressing over the weeping slit at each glide to drag Oliver's own wetness down and around the flushed flesh. She watched Oliver's lips move frantically, dripping nonsensical bollix meant to inflame both he and Marcus, brown eyes shut against his lover's intensity. Their chests met once again, rubbing, thrusts becoming erratic, and as groans and growls increased Katie realized she had to leave. She didn't want to leave. She wanted to see how their faces would change as ecstasy hit; she wanted to see Oliver's come splayed over both their stomachs; Katie wanted to see the after. She had never imagined Marcus as much of a cuddler and now she wanted to know. But as the noise grew Katie knew it was her one chance to leave without giving herself away.

She concentrated now on her weight, on distributing the pressure of each foot evenly so to lift herself up without causing the chair to shift or squeak. She was out the door when Oliver cried out, Marcus's grunt following closely behind, thus she had to spend two minutes slowly turning the knob on her door, not trusting a spell to be as quiet as manual dexterity. Behind closed doors Katie dropped the cloak and touched herself for the first time this evening, sighing at the wetness pooling between her legs.


	11. Neat little packages don't exist

1

Shite! Shite! Shite! Bloody hell, could this day get any worse! He had missed breakfast due to those wankers Pucey and Bletchley—got 'em back though, lousy sods—and now McGonagall had actually sent him back to the dungeons to fetch his homework. It wasn't like he really  _had_ any homework to get but he definitely hadn't thought he'd be called on that bloody excuse. Damn Gryffs. Marcus would get his own back at the match this afternoon though, bloody up that skinny prat Wood at the end while the stands cleared or something.

The thirteen year old hunched his shoulders as he skulked through the corridors, his body awkward and bulky and recently disturbing underneath his uniform. He'd like to owl Julian about it but—No. No, Marcus felt his face heat up just thinking about writing the words. Julian would probably think he was a fucking shirt lifter, or worse: he'd tell Mother. Marcus reached a bend and drew back hard enough to smack his head off the stone wall.

There was a girl crying in the hallway. Usually this wouldn't be a problem for Marcus cause, well hell he had made lots of people cry in the last two years, gender made no difference. But there was another girl too, and this one, with the yellow hair and soft smile, had his throat constricting.

"…want, Gryffindork?"

"Are you lost?"

Marcus peeked around the corner, watching as a red headed girl he recognized as a first year Slytherin was helped to her feet by the not-much-older Katie Bell. Her red and gold tie swung freely outside of her robes, her whip-straight tresses hanging down her back with only a small clip keeping it out of her eyes. She could have been bald, Marcus didn't care; what he saw was her smile and that it was the same sort of smile she would have given to any of her little Gryffindor friends, and for some reason it made him even angrier. He stepped out, scowl in place, and continued on his way.

"Flint?" He jerked his head sharply and glared at the shorter female. She looked him in the eye, not the mouth. "Eugenie is having some trouble finding your Common Room. Could you show her the way?"

"I'm not a fucking nursemaid Bell!" Marcus growled, dragging his gaze away from her fairy face to sneer at the first year. She shrank back, an utter disappointment to her House, crying and accepting help from a Gryffindor and now practically shaking in fear. How did she ever get sorted into Slytherin? He hissed. "Come on then!"

2

It burned Marcus.

It was the last day of the long weekend and he should have been home; he should have spent the last five days making Ian scared bloody shitless and rolling Freyja around the grounds, bird watching. But both his siblings were sick and Mother didn't want Marcus to catch whatever fever they had and thus the fifteen year old had to remain at school. But he wasn't the only one and Marcus Flint would never admit to loneliness—not to those who shared his dormitory at least—and there was always the Quidditch pitch and flying, Hufflepuffs to frighten. He hadn't expected the weather to be so nice this morning, to heat up around noon and continue. He hadn't planned on walking to Hogsmead or taking the path by the Black Lake. He hadn't expected students to be enjoying the cold water this late in the season.

The entire fucking Gryffindor team was swimming—sans Oliver of course, and shrieking to tear the ears off a grindylow, but swimming nonetheless; the damn Weasel twins doing running cannonballs off the dock with that wanker Potter and his side-kick, at least giving Marcus the hope that a bone or four could possibly be broken in their carelessness. A bikini-clad Spinnet was dunking Johnson, and while he took in those breasts of hers that his mate Higgs was always going on about it was just a gaze of curiosity, shrugging appreciation. As always it was Bell who caught Marcus' attention, and he frowned at how his eyes naturally followed her bobbing blond head as she floated on the surface of the lake. He frowned harder from his place amidst the trees as her momentary serenity was disturbed by one red headed twin, the ensuing sputtering causing Bell to rise quickly to her feet and cough out a mouthful of water, and causing Marcus to roughly grab a tree limb, blunt nails digging into the bark.

Water coursed down her orange swimsuit, the thick braid that hung over her shoulder. Marcus swallowed. Usually it was all billowing black robes, trousers and school shirts, but now…Merlin, Marcus could see her thighs. They were  _white_ , as if she'd never sat out under the sun, as if they had never been scraped or bruised riding a broom, as if they'd never been wrapped—Well of course not! She was fucking fourteen years old! Bell wasn't some slag; she had probably never even kissed a bloke before. Oliver would know—

Fuck. He shouldn't be watching this. It wasn't like a Quidditch practice where he could bring back information to his team. Marcus clenched his fists and continued on his way with a growl, and when he lay in bed that night, curtains closed and a hand around his cock, uneven teeth sunk into his bottom lip, he tried to think of Oliver but only Katie came to mind. She was here in bed next to him, her head resting on his pillow, wearing the bathing suit—no, no, his shirt! She was wearing his shirt, the hem dusting her thighs and he wondered what colour knickers she would—Oh! His body spasmed and he lost the vision with the pull in his abdomen.

He could never touch her.

3

Marcus stalked to the bar, his brow furrowed and back damp from his speedy shower. He needed a stiff drink; and even though he had a cabinet of stiff drinks free at home the professional Chaser also needed the smoky atmosphere and tired, drinking Quidditch players and the rowdy ones too. Practice had been long, hard, and expected, and now Marcus wanted one night to forget. No. That was a fucking joke. Marcus Flint was spoiling for a fight.

Oliver wasn't speaking to him. Couldn't blame him really but Marcus was still too angry to be sympathetic. Wood wanted a big family. Ever since he had shown Marcus picture after picture of his four gaggling sisters and buxom mother and ever-laughing father—and even fucking _dogs!_ —Marcus had known Oliver wanted his own bloody family, his own bloody kids, and after last night Marcus was certain Olivia Wood wanted her only son to have some bloody kids of his own. Lots of kids. Kids with Katie. But it wasn't just that. Kids… Mrs. Wood had to go on and on about Dolores and that fucking wedding— _"Ya should all come dearies, the more the merrier!"_ —patting Katie's hand all the way and giving little winks of which only Marcus seemed aware. Mrs. Wood wanted papers and rings and legalities that would shove Marcus Flint back into the shadows.

Maybe that was where he belonged.

He threw a few darts and fell into the routine of Friday night, laughing forcefully with Falcons team mates, ordering shots of Firewhiskey for the table, and mentally urging Roger Davies to walk in through the door every twenty minutes or so. But Davies hadn't been seen in Wizarding Britain lately and it was probably for the best. The next hit Marcus threw would kill the bastard.

A cheer rose up near the door as another group made their way into Roughage's Tavern. Marcus cocked an eye at the wall clock, having shrugged aside his coat and pocket watch long ago, sleeves rolled up over his elbows. It was late even for Friday standards for a team to now be getting out of practice. No. He must have been drinking more than he thought. It looked like Arrows colours and half their lot were already playing 8-Ball in the back. He stretched and wondered not for the first time where Oliver had found himself tonight. Katie should be home by now. There was a  _thunk_  and a pint was placed on the table in front of him.

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_When Katie stepped off on the tenth floor of St. Mungo's she was met with grim looks and steely glares from a multitude of sallow faced, darkly dressed gentlemen. By the robes she recognized a few as Ministry officials though she had no idea what so many would be doing on this floor. They were usually seen in the ward for those unfortunate victims of Unforgivable Curses or Dark Creatures, not in the- relatively- new Experimental Surgery and Raucous Injury section, and Katie couldn't help the shiver as she approached the main desk. It was a tad cool for July, even for a hospital._

" _Healer Bell please," she smiled at the rotund receptionist and adjusted her knapsack, hoping she wouldn't be interrupting her Da from anything important. She had wanted to check in on him before heading to The Three Broomsticks to study. Well…she'd also be meeting Alicia to plan Angelina's birthday, to owl Fred and remind him about his promise to not bring any_ unusual _gifts._

" _And just what would you be wantin' with Healer Bell, young miss?" Katie turned to address the rude scratchy voice and paled as she came face to face with the glowing tip o an Auror's wand. It was as if time stopped for the teenager, her jaw dropping and eyes like saucers as voices rose around her and someone was suddenly between her and the grizzly haired man._

"… _my daughter you bastard!"_

" _That's a transfigured bag Bell! We told you this floor should've been on lockdown!"_

_Katie was dragged away, felt hands on her face._

" _Katie. Katie love! Are you alright? What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Katie shook her head and looked up into her father's angry face and scared eyes._

" _I just wanted to bring you some soup," Katie dazedly pulled a warm thermos out of her knapsack. What had just happened here? She blinked hard and looked back at the small crowd, several arguing with other staff members now including the older Auror. "Da…what's going on?" She was pulled into a hug, her fingers sinking into the odd material that made up Mr. Bell's medical robes._

" _Nothing love," he looked down at her, forcing a smile and lowering is voice. "Nothing that you need worry about. Why don't you sit in the waiting room for a minute—I've already eaten but there's someone in there that could use a distraction I dare say. You probably know him from Hogwarts." Katie gave her father a quizzical glance but nodded, turning towards the brightly lit yet wholly depressing room; he'd explain later when there weren't so many ears about. None of her friends had mentioned having a family member in St. Mungo's—but then again if it had been a friend her father would have mentioned them by name._

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3

"Nott! What the bloody fuck are you doing back in England?"

Marcus watched with a surprised drunken gaze as fellow Slytherin Theodore Nott sat down across from him, a snifter of brandy the thinner man's drink of choice.  _Tosser_. Marcus raised his glass with a chuckle and drank down a cool gulp.

"I had some business, some friends to visit," Theo shrugged, returning the toast. "You know how it is Flint." Even in his intoxicated haze and the few years difference in their ages, Marcus could understand the strangeness in Nott's presence. Everybody remembered the scandal surrounding elderly Theodore Nott Sr.'s death and the taint of Death Eater that still clung to the Nott Family Tree. Young Theo had said Fuck You! to wizarding Britain and finished his education at Durmstrang among some distant relatives.  _More power to him_ , Marcus had thought at the time. A pardon from the Dementor's Kiss by the Ministry but they were too little too late to see the truth of elder Nott's  _Imperius_  defence and the old man had been in Azkaban too long.

Marcus snorted. Maybe Nott had kept in touch with Malfoy or Zambini; then again, from the little Marcus remembered of his younger schoolmates and their separate social circles, Nott had been rather ambivalent towards the more-zealous purebloods in his year, watching them from a body bred to stand with other purebloods.

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_Katie sat silently with slightly bitten lip near the boy who was trying to hide his watery blue eyes as each held a cup of savoury tomato soup, waiting amongst beige-green walls and windows charmed to look out on a lolling countryside complete with disgustingly bright sunshine. She had no stray tresses to push back, her long blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail; she had no rings or bracelets to pay attention to, Katie had never been big on jewellery; she had just worn a simple red jumper over her white blouse and black trousers, no robes of any sort to feign interest in whilst occupying the same space as a grieving son._

_She knew who the fourteen year old was, and after letting him yell at her irrationally for disrupting his solitude Katie had spoke his name and offered food and now they sat in awkward silence drinking soup. Nott's father was supposed to have been executed today at Azkaban—_ The Prophet _had been reporting for weeks on the event and the efforts for pardon with which the family had been pressing the Ministry._

" _I'm…I'm glad he won't die in prison." Katie's eyes slid from their position on the floor to Theodore's damp face, his skinny angular body swamped in the long formal mourning wear, his voice hoarse. "He wasn't around but-but he was innocent. Now everyone will know the truth." Nott's voice broke on the last syllable and he fell forward, elbows on knees, face in hands, holding his breath to refrain from crying in front of a pretty girl. Katie swallowed, her hands automatically reaching out. She understood what it meant to lose a parent and she had had tons of people around her. Theodore Nott was alone._

" _Nott. It's time boy"_

_The grizzled wizard stood in the doorway, regarding Nott and herself with a sneer; Katie dropped her hands back to her lap and Theodore remained untouched. She cleaned up the soup spill after Nott left to watch his father die._

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3

The vein above his right eye had begun to throb erratically. Marcus' anger wasn't pretty, it wasn't choreographed or rhythmic and he certainly didn't have time to rehearse hackneyed phrases of outrage inside his head—especially not while three sheets to the wind and the man in front of him had just used Katie Bell's name three times in the same sentence. He had roomed with one of the blokes on her team. And they had talked earlier and she even knew who he was after seven years. Well wasn't that fucking  **wonderful**  for him! Marcus chewed viciously on a handful of liquorice snaps, relishing how they moved independently in his mouth and under his dinosaur teeth before finally slipping down his throat.

Something else had to hurt.

"She mentioned that she lived with you and Wood." Marcus' jaw cracked.

"Did she?"

They had waited too long. He and Oliver had waited too long and now there was a possibility they would lose Katie before she knew—He listened, barely, and finished off the rest of his pint.

"Ya know Nott," Marcus scratched his chin, knuckles rubbing over the stubble, "Katie's in a good place right now. I don't think she needs anyone complicating—"

"Complicating?" Theo raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, long artist fingers resting near the bottom of his glass. "What are you talking about Flint? How is a night out for chips complicating Katie's life?" Marcus' eyes flashed as he watched Nott, pushing back his own chair and standing up to his full six foot three height. It was on now; this was it and Marcus was going to feel excellent breaking this pretty boy's nose…How did Nott get up so fast? "You're acting more like her father than the ass who sent her to the infirmary—"

Marcus' balled fist shot towards Nott's head. Making him out to be protector and abuser in the one sentence. Father?! And the gruesome memories of purposely hurting Kate Bell when all he had wanted was to hold her, to be the one she walked with, the one who shared her silences and smiles. But these thoughts didn't matter at present as Marcus had hit nothing but air and his lip was bleeding with the force of Theo's own surprise attack. There was the sound of scraping chairs; Marcus had one hand on the table, the other cupping his dripping mouth, a headache forming and ready to split his skull in two.

"Merlin Flint, how much have you had tonight?" Marcus wasn't going to dignify that with a response.

"Thar'll be no fightin' in Roughage's while I be alive!" A gruff voice roared out in the smoky stillness that ensnared all bar patrons when chaos threatened to break loose. The beefy bartender Herwick held a beater's club in one hand and tapped it twice against the counter. "Yer done fer tha night Flint; and Nott, get yer arse outta here 'fore my memory starts slippin' and I call tha Aurors down here!"

4

He draped an arm around Oliver's waist, listening to his lover's heavy breathing, feeling the rise and fall movement underneath his sated body. Marcus used his chin to nudge Oliver's head, to insinuate his mouth into the shoulder nook, to inhale and lap at the salty sheen of Wood's flesh.

"She never came, did she?" Marcus mumbled after a moment, rolling onto is back. Oliver slowly turned his head, his brown eyes half-closed, his body's released energy tugging him in to sleep.

"Suppose not." Marcus fixed his gaze on the ceiling. He knew  _something_  had happened between Katie and Oliver. The Keeper wasn't the type to kiss and tell—and Merlin, did Marcus know Wood could fill a dozen bodice-rippers with the amount of kissing he had done in the past—but a few times Oliver had approached him with a new gleam in his eye, and though Marcus had orchestrated much of their plan, had started the ball rolling, the idea of  _anything_  happening without his knowledge was excruciating.

"If she loves you—"

"Shut it Flint," Oliver groaned into his pillow. "Christ. I'm apparating to Cuba at nine and dark circles don't sell brooms!"

"But if she loves you…"

"…But I love ya. Now shut it before I smother ya in yer sleep."


	12. Good News

Katie stayed in her room Sunday afternoon. The door was locked, silencing charms were up, and she truly had no idea what step she should take next. Last night it had been simple and her solitary climax had been quick in the gathering, fingers gliding through juices that had already been there, little effort to pinch and flick when her skin was already flushed and her mind was already aroused. In the cool light of day though, wrapped up in her comforting duvet, Katie had to say that Marcus and Oliver were a couple. Period. The end. After seeing them _attack_  each other with such passion and then dissolve into tender caresses how could she believe that either man really wanted her to be a full intimate part of their everyday lives. Katie was better than a novelty; she was worth more than that deserved more. She had to bite her lip though at the pain—Oliver's mouth and hands, Marcus' back…

Katie shook her head and tossed back the covers, throwing her naked legs over the side. She couldn't stay in bed all day. This wasn't her! This wasn't Katie Bell getting upset over something that was never hers to begin with! Marcus didn't want her. She'd survive. Oliver liked kissing her; well she'd just have to have a talk with Mr. Wood. She'd…she'd…Katie began doing jumping jacks; she switched to sit ups and crunches after that, then leg lifts, anything to keep her from having to leave her bedroom and deal with whatever happened to be waiting outside it. She was jogging in place, stomach growling, when the medium spotted owl appeared at her window. It carried a bright pink envelope and Katie couldn't help but roll her eyes; she only had one friend who colour-coordinated her accessories to match her emotions.

_Kates Darling! The new shoe line's been accepted_

_by Milan Francesco! I'm so excited I could puke, and since_

_Angelina does enough of that on a daily basis and Ter won't_

_be home til late I need YOU to get that pretty arse of yours_

_over here to drink me under the table._

_And I swear if you show up in jogging pants I'll sell those pictures of you from_

_7_ _th_ _year Yule to_ The Prophet _! We're going dancing damnit!_

_Love, your gorgeous, witty, brilliant, exceedingly wealthy, talented best friend._

_P.S._

_I'm getting you laid Ms. Bell._

_Alicia_

Katie absentmindedly caressed the owl's silky feathers as she looked over the extravagant script. Dancing sounded rather nice—drinking sounded nice as well, but dancing with Alicia was always an event and gorgeous, witty, etc, etc, best friend would make Katie feel utterly beautiful and get her out of this rut. They could argue about the 'laid' part later. She sent Porter back to his mistress with a positive reply—and just a side trip to one Harry Potter with a deceptively small package—and stripped off her sweaty shirt and under-things, gathered her soaps, wrapped herself in a towel and headed to the bathroom. Oliver's door was open, but it meant Marcus had either left as well or…No, Katie could hear furious quill scratches coming from behind his closed bedroom door.

She took her time in the shower—free booze and a social life were not going to push Katie Bell out of so small an indulgence—rubbing her cucumber soap down her arms slowly, across her belly and chest, gently between her legs. She watched the foam slide away with the hot water, glide over her legs and pool over the drain. The scent of soap and shampoo and steam lulled her, made Katie focus on herself for once: the dull pain underneath her shoulder blades that had been there for weeks, the ache in her stomach—she really should eat something before a bout of drunken decadence with Alicia—and the rough skin of her heels, neglected for the love of jogging and disinterest in the idea of pumice stones and pedicures.

Katie hurried back to her room, leaving the loo in a puff of steam and condensation. A quickly penned note had been stellotaped to her door explaining Oliver's absence, which she crushed within her fist. Cuba? Where the hell had that come from? A drying charm took care of her hair, though clothes were tossed willy-nilly over bed and floor. It shouldn't matter; Alicia would have the last word but Katie  _felt_  pretty and she wanted to look it too. Her hand was on the front door when a bark stopped her.

"Where are you going?"

She jerked and turned around, blond hair whipping around her shoulders. He was in the doorway of the bathroom, thick towel wrapped around his hips, water still dribbling down his chest and through all that dark hair. Katie's throat tightened. His eyes weren't on her face, they weren't happy, and for two seconds she regretted the red dress.

"I don't need to tell you anything Marcus."

Katie watched her roommate swallow, his jaw clench.

"You used up all the hot water." Katie raised her chin and turned the door knob.

"I would think you'd need a cold shower after last night."

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She threw herself into the repetitive techno beat, watching Alicia's gleeful face and the flashing neon lights, and forced herself to keep up with the swarming masses on the club floor. Her best friend's gleaming wedding ring had kept most admirers away—Katie couldn't help but grin at the memory of Terence's tired expression as he entered his once sparkling kitchen to find jugs of margarita mix as well as half a dozen glasses that once held rum and cokes littering the counters. She'd blushed while waiting—Alicia and Ter being their demonstrative selves even as he pleaded exhaustion for not accompanying them—but that was partly from the alcohol.

Katie hadn't been without her own pursuers; she'd danced for a while with one darkly dyed redhead, laughing at the blinking lights charmed into his hair; another reminded her of Lee Jordan but both males had been lost to the crowd. She was slightly startled though when the current fast track came to an abrupt end and an indigo haze replaced the pulsing brightness. A rising howl and maniacal cat-calls ripped through the club as the regulars recognized what was to happen; Katie watched with a bemused expression while couples gathered in pairs, groups, bodies pressing together, and a deep bass seemed to sound directly under her feet, rushing up through borrowed heels. There was a saxophone and soft drums and Katie lost track of Alicia. That wasn't going to stop her from continuing to enjoy the atmosphere however, and she exulted in raising her strong arms high, having the silky fabric of her dress slip above her knees, pretending this little space of dance floor belonged to her and her alone.

When the hand skimmed across her stomach Katie just went with it, after all that's what everyone was here for right? To dance. To touch and be touched. It felt too good, the weight around her curves as his arm moved to encircle, the feeling of being coaxed back into a warm interested body and being just pissed enough to swivel her hips and not wonder a moment later if she had been right to do so. By the way his forearm tensed Katie felt a twinge of feminine pride in knowing  _he_  thought it was the right thing. She caught sight of Alicia dancing with a few female acquaintances and she grinned, giving a subtle wave of her fingertips—though she'd be hard pressed to admit Alicia had been right. Maybe this was all Katie needed: free interaction with a male she hadn't known practically all her life with no strings attached. It was just one night. Get out some adult frustrations and be perfectly fine tomorrow.

Perfectly fine.

Katie didn't understand the confused look Alicia was giving her or how her friend could go from first year potions student to astounded giggling mess in such a quick transition, but  _he_  was walking her now, off the dance floor, towards the washrooms, and pondering Alicia's expressions would have to wait. This was it. This was…she bit her lip as his grip tightened, two large hands spread across her hips and moving purposely away from the grinding crowd. Oh Merlin, did she really want to have sex in a public loo with a man whose face she hadn't even seen? Because that's where they were headed: a chin resting on her head momentarily, a cheek in her hair, a dark corner, and then the garish fluorescent travesty that was the night club's empty washroom.

They were silent, Katie blinking at the stark reality of mirrors, sinks, and paper towels on the long counter. The reality also was that is hands were still warm on her body, deliberately moving up and making her shiver and then gone, the sound of the lock rather final. Katie swallowed and stepped further into the room, focused on the opposite wall and knowing that she wouldn't be taking it from behind _. Keep control, casual, you do this all the time…_ She slipped a hand behind her neck, sweaty strands that Alicia had told her to keep down sticking to her flushed skin, and turned with what she thought was an inviting smile. It dropped soon enough as a pair of fiery emerald eyes bore down on her.

"Who were you expecting?"

Katie backed away from the intensity of his gaze, her countenance expressionless in her confusion and realization that Alicia hadn't stopped this. Her back hit the wall but he was right there, no personal space and eating up her air. Katie didn't like the thought that the last time she had seen him this mad was on the Quidditch pitch.

"Did you think I was Nott, Katie?" Marcus' voice was ice cold as he leaned down, those large hands resting to either side of her head and caging her in. Why was he doing this? Why was he here?  _Nott?!_  "Did you come here to meet  _him_? To bring  _him_  in here? Or is there a motel room waiting?" Katie could hear his back teeth grinding.

"Yes." The lie dropped from her lips so easily, devoid of any questioning inflection as her train of thought scrambled for purchase. There had to be a reason behind these questions, his sudden appearance and the fact that his hands had felt so good upon her body. If Marcus believed Theodore was involved well… "He owled me before I left and I told him to meet me here." She watched his jaw clench as his green eyes moved down from her face. Why would he care who she went out with?

"Is this what you do then Bell?" he began, dark eyebrows furrowing, mirroring what she felt happening on her own face. "You get hard up when Wood leaves and have to seek comfort elsewhere?" Katie's eyes widened and felt her hand tighten, preparing itself to crash across Marcus' face but instead pushing uselessly against his immoveable form. How dare he?!

"I don't know what you're on about  _Flint_ ," she frowned severely, feeling her former flush come back but now for a completely different reason. "But whatever you may think I am not out to steal Oliver away from you." She was going to kill that supposed best friend of hers. Liar! Liar, liar, liar! How could he have treated her like this, played with her emotions as well as Marcus'?!

Marcus brought his head up in a slow half-circle, as if his reaction time had to be as tempered as his eroding control. Their eyes met momentarily before his gaze dropped to he mouth and Katie could feel her anger flare with the intensity of his gaze; she didn't like the sudden thought that he had resented her presence the entire time they had lived together. Had Marcus always seen Katie as the third wheel? The annoying female in his Boy's Club just waiting to steal Prince Charming away? But Katie had never been a truly angry person and she couldn't help but to try to bite away the trembling of her lower lip. Had the closest people in her lives actually hated her?

Their foreheads were nearly touching and Katie opened her mouth with a shudder, unable to move back any further as Marcus' face fell towards her incrementally. She didn't want to hear any more of his taunts or perverted accusations. However, as she watched his countenance with growing fear Katie could see the obvious desperation written across his brow. She quirked her chin to demand just as he pushed his face into the crook of her neck, nose beneath her ear and breathing deeply. Katie froze.

"I know you're not trying to steal him Katie," Marcus mumbled raggedly into her hair. There was a fine tremor running through his limbs that shocked the former Harpy's reservist. "You can't steal what I've been shoving in front of you for months. No—please!" One large, wall-gripping hand fell possessively to her waist when Katie would have pushed him away. It took no more liberties, just held her in place, and Katie was struck with the observation that that was what his entire body was doing. There was no doubt it was an entirely male form pinning her to the wall, but there was no rubbing or grinding or any other sexual affection she had initially thought would be taking place here. He was holding her. He was touching her.

"Wood loves you Katie," he stumbled over the word while her blue eyes reached for the ceiling. "I think he's loved you since the moment he met you so don't be mad with him."

"I should be mad with you?!" Katie cried, not knowing what else to say. She was so drained and her body showed it in her slump. Marcus was silent, the only proof he had heard her being the slight tightening of his grip above her hip, the chin that pressed into her shoulder.

"…Were you really going to meet Nott here tonight?" The question was pressed into the skin above Katie's jugular. She took a shaky breath.

"I think I've stood him up."

"OI!" There was a horrid pounding on the washroom door, as if no one had ever heard of Alohamora or that it wasn't only the alcohol making a mess of everyone's minds. "Open the bloody door asshats! Some of us actually gotta use!"

Marcus' palm slid to the small of her back, his head moving away from the damp bower of her hair. Katie didn't know what to read in the depths of his emerald eyes. She was upset, she was tired, she was confused. But with it all came a semblance of relief—that Oliver hadn't been lying when he kissed her, hadn't been lying with all their little intimacies. But why hadn't they both come to her and—

"I'm taking you home Katie."

"Marcus…"

"I just want to hold you."

"I need some answers Marcus. This dress isn't coming off."

"I just want to hold you."


	13. The Man they call Ter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Muggle poetry" line is in reference to the beautiful work The Mirror of Love by Allan Moore

1

Terence Higgs hated Quidditch.

Well…more to the point, he hated  _playing_  Quidditch. Watching was fine enough he supposed, House spirit and all, getting out of the odd DADA practical or Charms essay, and one couldn't help but get carried away with generated excitement of fellow classmates. Terence loved numbers and potions and calculating—his parents sometimes called him a prodigy and young Ter was fine with that. Math was something that came so easy to his Slytherin mind; Arithmancy, a piece of cake. Chess was enjoyable if one had a decent opponent whom didn't make moves just to see all the pieces smash—though finding such a person in the dungeons among fellow purebloods that had "better things to do" was difficult. It wouldn't help matters to look desperate. It was, however, how he met Marcus Flint.

Of course it wasn't the first time they had met—spoken yes, but not met. That had been the night of their Sorting, with Ter almost bloodless under the scrap of fabric mentally chanting  _Slytherin!_  in case the hat got the wrong idea and put him in Ravenclaw which according to Geraint Higgs just wouldn't do. Marcus, a hulking eleven year old with a dead Death Eater for a father, had glared at the assembly—or so it seemed to the much smaller Higgs—barely spending a second on the stool before his lot was cast under the serpent.  _Great. One more person to throw me in a broom cupboard. Merlin he's ugly!_  Thus young Ter made himself two promises: to never be caught alone in a dark hallway with Flint, and not to infuriate the other boy because Merlin knew Higgs wouldn't survive. Of course both these promises would be broken over time, but when seated next to a possible troll life affirming mental notes are needed.

When Marcus had come upon a lone Ter during a Hogsmeade weekend—when all older students were taking advantage of the happy village and all younger Slytherins were pretending not to be jealous—Ter had stared blankly for a full minute before muttering some lie about the set being a gift from a hated great aunt only to watch mutely as the hulk sat down opposite and began to play. And he  _could_  play. Not well, but he wasn't the illiterate mass young Terence had expected.

But yes. Quidditch. Terence hated Quidditch, but in his family his wants and desires were generally ignored. A real pureblood education wasn't complete without a stint on the House team, no matter how many OWLS he accumulated, and if Ter ever wanted a piece of the unbelievable Higgs fortune he'd tow the line. And he did—up until seventh year, when his captain and best mate Marcus explained to him the current situation about Malfoy and brooms and changes in front of Miles and Warrington with as much class as a mule in a tea shop. Ter railed for nearly two weeks about the injustice of it all to any Slytherin who would listen and avoided Marcus for a month, and when news of the displacement inevitably reached home Ter was comforted instead of being labelled a quitter, a disappointment, and given a rare potions text on the properties of Dark Creatures for Yule—a heirloom that had been expected to go to an older cousin.

2

There was only one thing about playing Quidditch that held any merit in Ter's view, and that was how close it got him to one Alicia Spinnet, Gryffindor Queen. Alicia loved the bloody game. She would hang upside down on her broom for hours on a dare, collect her knuts and discreetly vomit behind the bleachers before going off on some other crazy stunt. Energy rolled off her in waves, through her rich brown hair, along her cat-like spine, but intelligence got her off the pitch when the prat twins brought out the bludgers. She loved Quidditch but she loved music too, and sugar quills and rainbows and talking. She was sleek and strong and she had been the one to approach him after a close match in fourth year when hands had truly accidentally missed in reaching for the Snitch.

" _Do you touch girls off the field Higgs, or did my breasts suddenly sprout wings today?"_

His parents would not approve—well his mother wouldn't care enough to notice, but Geraint Higgs would not be pleased, and why these thoughts would be running through the head of a fourteen year old boy when Alicia Spinnet had her dangerous mouth pressed to his was unexplainable. Perhaps Ter even then was trying to calculate the logic in marrying Alicia and simply said screw it.

Nobody knew except for Marcus, but Marcus knew everything so he really didn't count. Her Gryffindor friends were left in the dark, privy only to sarcastic-rising-to-mean banter where he would insult her working class mother while she would insult his alcoholic one and then loudly make Fred promise to aim extra balls at Ter's head in the next game. It excited Terence;  _she_  excited him, pulled him away from the library and textbooks and unsupportive parents and made him want to be the center of her universe as much as she had become his. He couldn't stop touching her. After particularly heated arguments they were forced to perform for the benefit of their friends and House status Alicia would hold him close in the Astronomy Tower, kissing his fair hair while he mapped the contours of her legs with eager hands.

Ter had been a virgin when they slept together for the first time. She hadn't. Though he had seen much of Alicia's body unclothed in the time before this momentous occasion, seeing the whole picture was rather intimidating but she had been gentle, patient, and even when he came after only four thrusts Alicia had kissed his forehead and shown him exactly what to do to make her happy. By then he was ready for round two, smirking as the word 'prodigy' left her parted, panting, kissable lips.

When Geraint had a stroke the December after Ter left Hogwarts the only Higgs heir was dutifully shocked and attentive to his grieving relatives and worried employees, some called him a pillar of strength in such an unstable time. He waited three days after the funeral, waited until certain legal papers had been signed and his fortune was no longer in doubt before introducing Alicia to his stunned mother over winter hols. She poured them all white wine in silver goblets then excused herself after twenty minutes for her usual massage session—code Ter had grown up with and knew to stand for Lover #3. Introductions went better at the Spinnet household.

3

Ter knew Marcus was gay; it happens, sharing a room with a bloke who doesn't even seem mildly interested in knowing about your secret girlfriend's perfect tits or any other set of tits for that matter. Those Turpin chicks had a decent set…according to Alicia. But at any rate Ter didn't give two galleons about it but he knew better than to spread the word or put up flags or find Marcus bloody epic Muggle poetry on the history of homosexuality. Not when Flint wouldn't really admit it himself and got into just as many arguments with his lovers as he would have on the field. At least Ter thought there were lovers until he learned about Oliver Wood and then it all strangely made sense. He broke two of his promises that day.

He had just returned from a meeting with Professor Snape—apparently Geraint had sent a private letter of Ter's failings to the Slytherin Head—stalking through the dim corridors towards the Dungeons with another chip cut out of his pride and self-esteem until he was forced into awareness of Flint and Wood's relationship. The shorter Wood was leaning into Marcus, licking or sucking or doing something to Flint's neck while the Slytherin's hands were obscured between their teenage bodies and voluminous black school robes. Ter felt his eyebrows crawl up, his brain momentarily unable to process the scene until Wood was walking away and Flint finally knew he was there.

" _Higgs!" Flint's eyes were aflame as Oliver left the hallway in happy ignorance, gaze locked angrily on his best friend and constantly calloused fists clenched. "You got two seconds before I tear off your fucking jaw! What the bloody fuck are you doing here?!"_

" _It's a hallway Marcus." Ter answered coldly, not knowing what else to say given the situation and his friend's sudden anger and the fact that his own anger at his father meant much more at the moment than if Flint and Wood were fucking each other blind. "And I'm going to my room if it means anything to you."_

There was nothing else said about it, nothing much said at all really. It took Marcus a while to see that Ter wasn't going to use this new information against him and it took Higgs time to get down off his high horse, but living together, seeing each other day in and day out, it's difficult to ignore someone for long. Marcus was gay and Ter liked tits. Simple as that. Or it was until Ter caught Marcus playing stalker with Bell in the infirmary.

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_He kept giving Marcus covert looks as they sat in silence on the train ride back to King's Cross station. His surly classmate had been staring out the window for the past hour, oblivious to the crude humour of Miles—who had been bragging about that pin-up magazine for weeks now as if he'd never seen a woman before—and Chris' constant inquiries about the trolley before falling into another five minute snoring fit. Ter kept his nose in his much-read runic text-book._

_He'd had to go in search of Flint once Filch had gone mental, calling last call to the carriages with three quarters of Hogwarts still celebrating Gryffindor's victory. Ter supposed he could have packed Marcus' stuff himself but blokes really didn't do that sort of shite and it could have been said that his troll-like friend had been in an even greater sheen of depression last night. Well…greater for Marcus Broody Flint. After checking the broom sheds, the pitch, the Great Hall, and—ugh!—cornering a recovering Oliver Wood, Higgs had finally decided that Marcus_ had _been complaining about his knee a bit too much in the past week an perhaps after yesterdays dismal finish he'd finally gone to get it checked out. Long shot? Yeah. But Ter drew the line at checking washrooms._

_He had nearly run into a potion-laden cart at the sight that greeted him in the infirmary. It wasn't the fact that Katie Bell was tucked up in a cot, blond locks mussed from sleep spread over the standard sanitized pillow and the endings of a great yellowed bruise over her left eyebrow—though he couldn't hide the wince given that she was one of Alicia's nearest friends. No, what made Terence stare agog was that his best mate was standing at the foot of said cot, staring down at said Chaser, with a look in his bright green eyes that Ter could only read as ravenous. He'd hauled Flint out of there before Madame Pomfrey came and hexed them both._

_And now Master Higgs sat, pretending to read in a barely tolerable train compartment, fighting against telling Bletchley that even if he had Ms. February in his room for a month the poor woman would undoubtedly leave at the end with more disappointment than galleons and shouting at Chris to go track down the trolley if he was that bloody hungry. He could barely contain his impatience when Warrington made the decision for himself then bugged Miles for five minutes before both lads went on the search for sugar and larger guts. Two more lines and Ter dropped his book to the seat just evacuated by the Snoring Wonder._

" _What the bloody hell is going on?"_

_Marcus' strong jaw jerked quickly in Ter's direction, as if he hadn't been paying attention to mile after mile of Scottish countryside, as if his mind hadn't been exactly where his body was seated._

" _You don't know what you're talking about Higgs."_

" _Don't give me that shite Flint! I know what I saw and you were ready to fucking_ eat _Katie Bloody Bell this morning!" Oh Merlin, was Marcus blushing?! Ter's irritation at not being in the know was quickly being replaced by extreme awkwardness. He muttered an oath and looked at his shoes, elbows on his knees. "Marcus I—" Ter began again, his voice significantly lower, still glancing from his feet to the door. "What about Wood? I thought you…I mean, you like blokes right? I mean, isn't that who you are?"_

_The silence was deafening._

" _Who…who I am?" Ter felt the full weight of those emerald eyes now. It was disconcerting. Bloody hell, what was taking Miles and Chris so long? "Does fucking Spinnet make you who you are Higgs?"_

" _Don't talk about her like that."_

" _You started it." Marcus rubbed his chin once, like he was considering punching Ter between the eyes. He opened his mouth once, twice, then looked out the window again._

" _I don't know who I am anymore."_

_Ter said nothing in reply and minutes later Miles and Chris returned with their loot._

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4

Terence was tired. It had been a long day, made even longer from the rush of his wife's good news and the crash in understanding that he wouldn't be able to immediately celebrate. He had an empire to run, he had responsibilities; he couldn't just run off and get trashed at the drop of a hat and Alicia knew that. Didn't make him feel any better, just appreciative that Alicia knew he was actually at work and not shrugging off her big day by schmoozing investors at some club in Knockturn Alley.

When he finally Apparated home he had expected Alicia and her girls to have disappeared long ago, gracing the finest drinking establishments with their charm and beauty, dancing away the night, not his digs reeking of booze and two soused Gryffindors cackling on his designer rug.

"Alicia? Darling?"

He sat with a brandy twenty minutes later, not thinking too much about his wife's goodbye kisses and rubs and whispered erotica while her friend stood not five feet away. He'd whispered some naughty things as well, wishing she'd piss off her public night of debauchery and stay in for some debauchery of the private sort. Alicia had chortled conspiratorially.  _"I'm_   _getting her laid tonight Ter, you'll see!"_  Not that the health of Katie Bell's sex life meant anything to him, but he'd nodded, caressed the soft skin of his wife's cleavage one last time before seeing them both out.

The sudden, unexpected crackling of the Floo Network gave him a moment to turn his head before a handful of soot announced the arrival of one pissed off Marcus Flint.


	14. What happens in Cuba Stays in Cuba

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I read back over this story and realized I had made a mistake or six in continuity, so for the record let me state that Marcus' dead father's name is Malcolm and not Aurelius; that mistake above all pissed me off. Making ones own canon gets confusing. Also, Oliver "Apparating" to Cuba should have been "taking a port key." Sigh. Enjoy!

When practice finished Friday night Oliver was set to return home; he was sore from the missed quaffles and extra penalty laps, and he was mentally exhausted from the whirlwind that was his mother's visit yesterday and the ensuing argument with Marcus—Marcus. Bloody fucking Marcus. The Scotsman stepped out of the showers with an uncharacteristic scowl, forgetting about his towel until the catcalls started and Julia Fitzpatrick flashed him on her way to her locker. Cheeky bint.

He was angry, angry at the entire situation and angry at Marcus for making him see it. Again. It had been no secret to his boyfriend that Oliver wanted a family—not right this minute for Merlin's sake, he wasn't even bloody thirty yet!—but to bring it up after his mother…to _assume_  that that was the reason his mother had dropped in  **and**  to bring Katie into it…Again. Oliver clenched his jaw, pulling on a polo shirt and one of a never ending supply of wool sweaters with a grimace, and forced away the all-too seductive image of Katie Bell pregnant with his child, Marcus' arms around them both. He nearly bowled over Hendrickson and a group of braying morons as he exited the Puddlemere change rooms. Apparently Zacharias Smith was getting married, and the exuberant partygoers weren't taking "Leave me the hell alone!" as an answer. Thus Oliver—long with several other tired quidditch players—were hauled along on the Smith/Bulstrode pre-stag.

The first London pub was chalk-full, sweltering, and horribly noisy for Oliver's current temperament, familiar and not-so-familiar Hogwarts faces swapping stories and clapping backs, but after four pints and a fair number of shots the Keeper didn't protest when the group decided to move on to move lively pursuits: a wizarding dance bar that Oliver hadn't even known existed on Diagon Alley. His sweater disappeared ten minutes through the door and a firewhiskey somehow made it into his grasp, Seamus Finnegan, Cedric Diggory, and other blokes he hadn't seen in months—years!—dancing like the drunken baboons they were under the strobe lights. An hour or so later, after the drinks had mostly worn off and a pleasant buzz had replaced angry thoughts, Oliver found himself laughing with the bartender, cheering as Smith was hauled onto the dance floor to complete another asinine activity, then turning semi-jovially as his shoulder was tapped with a firm hand.

The chuckle vanished like warmth near Dementors.

"What do ya want Zambini?"

The olive-skinned demon in angel guise curled his marvellously full lips and smirked at the Puddlemere Keeper, lifting his own pint from the damp bar.

"I don't even get a 'hello' Oliver?" one very black eyebrow was raised in pouting condescension, an equally dark long sleeved shirt gleaming underneath the glow of a bare yellow bulb. "It's not as if we're strangers. I think I deserve some sort of salutation."

Oliver gave him an upper cut without preamble, sending Blaise's glass soaring and tearing the skin of his knuckles on teeth with which only the superbly pretty are born. Only the bouncer and bartender were aware of the unexpected altercation but that was enough as meaty hands roughly escorted both men out of the bar. Sweater returned.

"That was bloody unnecessary!"

"That was what ya deserved ya fucking tosser!" Oliver pushed Blaise against the brick wall, fighting the primal urge to pummel that sinfully gorgeous face into oblivion. "Did ya follow me? What the bloody fuck are ya doing here Zambini?!"

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" _What do ya want Zambini?"_

_Gryffindor House Quidditch Captain and depressed seventeen year old Oliver Wood looked up from his trusty Cleansweep 95 with a shrug and disinterested gaze. The last few days had been a bloody wreck on the Scottish lad; the stress of impending graduation, NEWTs, and career possibilities—only one in his mind but parents always had opinions—and the upcoming Slytherin/Gryffindor final had only been magnified after his most recent argument with Flint. Of course the consequence of absence had to be suffered in solitary silence and that was what hurt the most. No one was supposed to know about their long-time beneficial relationship, and so he had to use the myriad of other excuses when asked about melancholy instead of 'I miss touching my non-boyfriend's cock immensely.' Katie had been so very Katie and tried to rally him out of the doldrums using shoulder rubs and Weasley-brand humour and impossible quidditch plays that made no sense unless one forgot the presence of Madame Hooch and the snitch, which sorely tempted his resolve in relation to his desires towards his best friend. But Marcus was the issue and they weren't speaking at the moment._

_For some reason Blaise Zambini was though._

_Blaise Zambini was an unnaturally attractive third year Slytherin whom Oliver had noticed pretending to study in the library this past month—and had tried not to notice winking at him last Tuesday. (Winking at him with intent, as Fred would say about Angelina.) Having Zambini stand before him now, on this rapidly darkening afternoon with the scent of fresh grass and broom oil in the air, did not bode well for Oliver's conscience._

" _You seem tense Wood," the younger boy stepped closer to the bleachers, the soft curls of his black hair tossing slightly in the breeze. His black school robe was folded elegantly over one arm making Oliver wonder if Zambini had ever had a childhood. "I was just out for a walk and wondered why a Gryffindor king would be all by himself this close to end of term."_

_Oliver snorted, giving Blaise an incredulous look and going back to his pruning, but he didn't offer protest when the Slytherin sat down as well. He did however experience a muscular, knee-jerk reaction when one long, warm hand slid across his thigh. Oliver turned to Blaise with surprised eyes, a curse ready on his tongue, but the darker teen was leaning forward with a soft smile and keen gaze, hand unmoving but steady. Oliver quickly made a scan of the empty pitch then looked back to Zambini warily._

"… _What are ya playing at Blaise?"_

" _You would never have to be alone with me Oliver," Blaise leaned closer, all dark eyes and full lips. "You would never have to_  pretend _with me." Oliver swallowed, his eyebrows slowly furrowing._

" _Ya don't know what yer talking about."_

" _I know you aren't very selective in where you choose to spend time with Flint," the Slytherin Captain's name was stage whispered and Oliver noted that the soft smile had turned slick. "Even Draco and Pansy have a go behind the broom sheds. Not that they do much…but I've always liked to watch."_

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Zambini drew his wand and Oliver grasped air, cursing his stupidity in leaving such protection with his quidditch gear back at the Puddlemere stadium. There was a smirk behind those Mediterranean features but Blaise didn't attack. He cast a  _Sanguinarius_  charm on his lip, stopping the flow of blood from the split skin and leaving the surrounding flesh rather puffy in Oliver's opinion. Katie would have—

"Follow you? Don't flatter yourself Wood," Blaise sneered, returning his wand to his inner coat pocket. Oliver folded his arms, favouring his injured hand, waiting for an explanation, though he should have left the street immediately, should have gone home as soon as he had seen the bloody cocksucker. "I've always been a man of business and you just happen to be the man I need to complete a certain business transaction; our meeting here is merely…fortuitous."

"Business?" Oliver twisted his mouth, still hoping for a fight. "That would involve a  _mutual_  need Zambini, and as ya know ya don't have anything  **I**  want."

"Not anymore," Blaise cocked his head and leaned back against the brick, crossing his ankles, a knowing look in his eye. "I was wondering why you were here alone Wood, but that's your style isn't it? Free, easy, and no commitments?" Oliver's cheeks reddened but he made no comment. "Where is your boyfriend these days—or should I say girlfriend? It's so hard keeping up with the wild lives of Quidditch Boys."

"Get to the point Zambini—"

"Does Marcus know how wild you can get Oliver?" Blaise examined his nails and looked up lazily through a mass of dark eyelashes. "Does pretty Gryff, Ms. Bell?"

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 _Oliver slumped his shoulders in the darkness as he made his way quickly across the green fields of Hogwarts towards the Slytherin Quidditch lockers. A frown was etched onto his usual pleasant face, the Gryffindor senior still troubled over his earlier conversation with Blaise and the younger students' purpose in approaching him on the pitch. He wasn't very proud of his reactions either—Oliver should have pushed Zambini away the second the third year brought his hands into the mess, not after the second kiss._ Fucking fourteen years old! _The thought almost made Oliver feel like a dirty old man—except that he was seventeen and frustrated and a pair of soft lips could be anyone in the dark. But it hadn't been dark, and it hadn't been Marcus, and Oliver had known enough to push away._

_He had received a message from Marcus at dinner and spent the next few hours biding his time between surly awkwardness and quiet excitement in the Gryffindor common room. He could deal with Angelina and Alicia's unwarranted glares in his direction—Oliver wasn't going to discuss 'Social Time vs. Quidditch Practice' with them again—and the Twin's rather heated game of 'Who can make Lee Laugh the Loudest.' There was no peace to be found in Oliver's dorm as Percy Weasley had commandeered all free space (including the floor) in his never-ending attempt to earn top marks. Katie was helping a first year with a rudimentary Charms spell near the fireplace, taking time away from her own studies to correct the kid's stranglehold grip on his wand. She looked Oliver's way at one point, laughing at some joke he hadn't heard, and her smile and eyes were so very bright._

_He wasn't thinking about the common room though as he approached the lockers. He was thinking that maybe Marcus had gotten his ruddy head out of his arse and they could move on to something better. It was obvious that the fellow House Captain had something else on his mind as Oliver stepped into the dim green and silver change room, the noises coming from Flint's throat as he leaned heavily against the lockers making Oliver's mistake all too apparent._

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"I know you're headed to Cuba in the next few days," Blaise spoke over Oliver's growling conjecture, his tone somewhat bored but his dark eyes alight. "I just wanted you to know that I'll be your guest."

Oliver stood silent for a moment then gave a bark of laughter, for the first time finding some humour in the horrid situation.

"I wouldna share a port key with ya if dragons burned down all o' London and  _ya_  were the only way to safety. I sure as fuck ain't bringing ya to fun in the sun in Cuba just because ya ask so very nicely."

"I wasn't asking Wood. I was telling." Blaise's voice wasn't so bored now and Oliver's face regained its hard anger but he made to turn away, having had enough of Zambini's company for one lifetime.

"Ya have enough money squirreled away to take yer own vacations, so this has been fun but stay the fuck away from—"

"This is business Oliver," Blaise stated loudly, halting Oliver's progress down the empty alley, "not pleasure. The galleon's are all stored away until Mother releases my trust fund from her cold dead hands, but you'll be introducing me to someone who has quite a lot more at her fingertips at this very moment in time."

Oliver stared blankly, a sudden breeze skating needles across his torn knuckles shocking the thought processes along and finally helping him see Blaise's purpose in tracking him down tonight. Oliver—as the current Nimbus spokesman—would be introducing a new line to the Cuban wizarding market, along with the brand new company vice-president and recently widowed Ms. Lavender Brown. Oliver shook his head slowly, a little in disbelief, and gave Blaise a non-appreciative once over.

"…How long have ya been planning this? Since ya graduated? Since the poor lass got married?" Blaise's smirk was teeth-rottenly sweet.

"Does it matter?"

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_Oliver watched Marcus intently as Blaise left the change room, the Gryffindor's scream for the third year to leave still echoing off the metal lockers and wooden floor, his blood pumping in his throat and chest, his face so red it hurt. Marcus' expression was a mixture of apology and resignation, as if this was to have been the expected outcome all along. The door slipped shut behind him as Oliver stepped deliberately closer, flinging his school robe onto a bench while Marcus zipped up his trousers. The eye contact was painful but neither male would give it up._

" _I didn't mean for this to happen Wood," the tall Slytherin grunted through clenched, unfortunate teeth, one hand settling in his pocket to crush the note signed 'Oliver.' "But if you think about it, it makes more sense than we ever did."_

_Oliver's brown eyes bulged, the astonished words lodged behind his tongue. Blaise, a Slytherin with no quidditch interests whatsoever, sucking Marcus off in a locker room, made sense?!_

" _In whose bloody world, Flint?!"_

" _At least we come from the same fucking worlds!" Marcus sneered, folding his arms over his partially opened school shirt. "In_ our _circles you keep your mouth shut and don't let anyone else in on your own fucking business!"_

_Something hardened in Oliver's stomach then as he simultaneously lashed out to kick one of the Slytherin lockers and Marcus' hand landed harshly to grasp his upper arm, shaking him. "You've got nothing to worry about Wood," Marcus spat, pushing Oliver to stumble onto a bench. "I've seen how fucking distraught you've been, already seeking comfort from your dear Gryffindor princess."_

" _Wh—"_

" _Oh yea, leaning back between her knees, her arms wrapped around you on the pitch." The tendons in Marcus' neck were straining as he looked down on Oliver. "Holding your hand in the corridor like you're something so fucking precious. Merlin, you make me sick!" Oliver sat, watching disbelievingly at Flint's tirade as he thought back to the event's being mentioned: Katie being the comforting, touchy-feely best friend that she was in trying to cheer Oliver up from whatever he wouldn't say was bothering him while he_ fought _the urge to snog her in the hallway. Oliver's hands fisted at his sides and he stood up swiftly—after all these years it was the same fucking argument—but Marcus wasn't finished, his voice rising._

" _Why don't you bloody well marry her already, Wood? It's what you've always wanted: her soft fucking little body under yours!"_

" _You want that too!"_

_There was a pause, like a gathering of thunder, before Marcus lashed out, slamming Oliver back against the lockers. He grabbed Oliver's robe and threw it out the door, kicking a locker himself._

" _Get out of here you fucking faggot before I break your fucking jaw!"_

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It was the night after his first Puddlemere game.

His Mother and Father had come as pillars of support—well, Oliver had given them tickets, his four sisters having to wait for possible future games—though he hadn't seen them in the stands. Katie was still at Hogwarts and the twins seemed to be working constantly. No one else mattered. He'd been scared out of his mind, hiding it all behind an anal-retentive stance of professionalism and Wallace-esque bravado that even had Coach wanting to batter him before the bludgers ever had a chance; but now, seated merrily at a pub somewhere in London, drunken cheering team mates trying to play darts and ignoring his pissed arse, Oliver couldn't help but feel proud, satisfied. Free and easy and successful: who could beat that!

He reached for his pint of Guinness, a tad too out of it to object to the warm hand that suddenly encased his shoulder, the sleek for that sat in the chair beside him. Too close: all cunning eyes and warm breath. Oliver blinked, looking unsteadily at Blaise's curving mouth.

"Merlin, Zambini," Oliver pressed a palm against the off-centered table, sweating. "Are you…are you even of age to be in here?" Blaise pulled him closer, tugging on Oliver's polo with a teasing smirk.

"Does it matter?"


	15. The Truth As We See It

Standing in the confines of their living room Katie had thought the situation would improve. It hadn't. The familiar walls and personal belongings didn't lessen her confusion or swirling emotions, in fact it most definitely made things worse. Despite Marcus' claim that he only wished to touch her, the former Slytherin had released Katie as soon as they Apparated home, as if this was a sacred spot not meant for heterosexual affection—No, no that was the bitterness again, the growing dark spot that had slowly found purchase in the Healer's soul. Katie hated it and hated missing Marcus' warmth, especially when she needed answers more than his body pressed to hers and that she was hastily on her way to becoming a hypocrite with Oliver half a world away. They sat like wooden puppets on the leather couch, years of missed opportunities and inadequacy between them.

"You saw us last night," he grunted out at last once she had finally thought the silence would consume them, flicking imaginary lint off his pants then scratching his chin like his hands needed a cigar or something to keep up the patented pureblood smokescreen of apathy. Katie felt her cheeks heat up, realizing what he meant, but nodded all the same. She had made the subject viable for communication after all, what with her earlier oh so witty jibe.

"Yes. And you…you knew about the cloak."

"Yeah." There was a pregnant pause and Katie listened to his jaw crack. "It was my idea." The blond swallowed, turning her head minutely to see his expression, see an explanation, but all Katie could picture was the naked force that had ravished her best friend while she silently watched and she quickly brought her head back into position.

"…Why didn't you and Oliver…talk to me? About anything! Why didn't you come to me together?" She continued over his snort, a bit of grit coming into her own voice at the thought that Marcus was laughing at her, having no problem with looking at him now. "Why all the bloody lies Marcus? I'm not a child!" She didn't find anything funny here.

"Don't you think I fucking well know that?!" he turned to look at her sharply, the fire back in those emerald eyes as her tone suddenly gave him permission to be angry. "I've wanted you for myself since the first day I goddamn saw you even though I  **knew**  I couldn't fucking touch you because  **you**  didn't even know I was alive! I watch you parade around here day after day playing Miss' Mary Homemaker in your fucking little biker shorts and towels—" he had gotten up to fetch a drink and simply slammed the door of their liquor cabinet, glass shaking precariously, face livid. "What should I say to you Bell? For Salazar's sake, tell me! What the fuck do you want to know?!"

"Where this is all coming from, for starters!" Katie's cheeks had gone from embarrassing pink blush to the scarlet red of her dress, hand clenching the arm rest as she incoherently, internally, debated getting up herself or simply continuing to become as attached as she could to her corner of the couch. This was suddenly more information than she wanted even as it was exactly what she had longed to hear.  _What the bloody hell is wrong with me? NO! It's them! It's him!_ "Marcus, you've never even looked at me if not to inflict some life-long injury!" Her right wrist immediately came up and it seemed to slap him across the face. "I knew you were alive alright; you were the one pushing me off my damn broom!"

"Katie—" he had growled out, but Katie was on her feet now, blond tresses stuck to her sweaty neck and fists tight.

"And it's not like I held quidditch against you, I mean it was just a school game! Was I…was I that unapproachable?" she took a step forward, eyes wide and startled, trying to rationalize,  _trying_  to be logical, intelligent. "Even now you act like I'm the spinster aunt in the corner who disrupts yours and Oliver's perfect life with my presence—"

"I never said—"

" **But that's how you make me feel!** "

Katie surprised them both with her scream, movements swift to push out against Marcus' chest, elbows to be caught by his rough hands. She coughed, damning wet eyes. "Merlin, are you so blind? You walk around here lucky to still have clothes what with the amount of laundry I do and you say I don't know you're alive?!" There was a ripple, a fight going on in Marcus' body as his hands fought to keep Katie at a distance and yet bring her closer, to plaster him with her flesh and scent and everything that was  _Katie_. He didn't know how to hear all this either but Katie wasn't going to be pushed away. If she had to listen to his confession, by Godric he was going to hear hers! "And if this was all your idea then you know I kissed Oliver, right here on this couch I could have had him,  **but I didn't!**  I could have and I wanted to but I didn't because of you! I said no to my best friend because I didn't want to hurt you Marcus Flint; I didn't want to come between you and Oliver and I wanted so much more for myself!" Fuck, why did there have to be so many tears! "I am so damn  **scared**  of being left alone, but I told Oliver no because I…because I wanted you to love me too!"

She had been forcing Marcus to keep eye contact, forcing him to see the truth of her words even through her emotional upheaval, but the last had been too painful and Katie ripped away from his grasp, the tingling of blunt fingers still tangible on her skin and the beginning of red welts appearing. She dashed shaking hands across her watery cheeks, registering the heavy breathing just steps behind—steps behind but unmoving.  _Finish it!!!_  "Do you understand?" Katie's throat hurt and she coughed again, sniffed, pulling herself up. "If I've seemed cold it's because I'd rather be the third wheel than off the car entirely. And you haven't exactly been emotionally accessible either. I…" she swallowed. "And I'd rather leave than see either you or Oliver get hurt."

There. That was it. While her arms still felt branded, Katie's bare legs were covered in a tight sheet of goose bumps: cold, shivering, and weak. It was as if she had just dispatched an Unforgivable on herself, heart cut open and laid at Marcus Flint's troll-sized feet to be stomped on at his whim. She heard the muttered, vicious curse before large hands were on her non-resistant shoulders, pushing her back upon the couch while he loomed standing above, arms crossed and a softer pinched sneer spread over his mouth.

"Do you know what it's like living with you Bell?" Marcus' gaze was demanding as it pinned Katie down, angry that she had brought him to this point. "It's like we never left Hogwarts—"  _Oh Goddess, he hasn't heard a word I said!_  "— **because** ," he rode over the groaning protest bubbling in her throat, "I keep watching you and thinking, how can someone be this fucking innocent. I tried to convince myself back then that you were another Gryff actress. Fake. It has to be a joke. Nobody was—is—that good. It doesn't exist no matter how Saint Potter had you all fooled; I keep expecting to find rat poison in my dinner whenever you cook and it never comes!" Katie watched his nostrils flare, tendons visible along his neck and gaze broken momentarily while he gathered what next had to be said. "I'm not a good man. I'm not even a _nice_  man, I wasn't raised to be. So forgive my inherent suspicion of—" He snorted, almost clearing his throat, and shook his head, abruptly leaning over, large and imposing in her vision, one hand on the leather behind her head, the other squeezing the arm rest. Katie's head lolled back. Inhale. Oh Merlin he smelled so good.

"I'm not used to getting what I want Katie."

The puff of air could have been a desperate laugh, but her eyebrows furrowed and Marcus' eyes dropped to her lips. If she just moved a little, another breath maybe, tilt her chin… Dark lashes flicked up and his jewel eyes trailed her flushed cheeks, all soft skin that had been untouched for so long. They couldn't go back—Katie  _wouldn't_  go back to not knowing.

"You always get what you want Marcus."

"Do I?"

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_When she had left earlier, dressed to kill and leaving him half naked with an inference of truth and instant arousal, Marcus had been shocked and angry and absolutely desperate to get their woman back. She had seen them. Katie Bell had seen himself and Oliver Wood completely devour each other. Yes, that had been the point of the bloody cloak to begin with, to get her familiar with their bodies and the idea of them touching each other, making Katie think of them devouring her, but how the hell had they not noticed her? Where had she hidden herself away? Behind the door? Had she been standing by the headboard the entire time, looking down as they mauled and tugged and licked? Oh fuck, did Katie touch herself; hands gliding up and over milky thighs and Marcus hadn't known?_

_It had been hard to carry on dressing after that thought._

_How had she remained silent seeing Oliver displayed on the bed, glistening, his brogue thick and words indistinguishable as Marcus rode every drop of ecstasy from the Scottish son? Or—hmmm—had she been struck dumb at his own impressiveness? Wondered what she would do with a cock like his? Wishful thinking_. A piece of meat to match the mouth. _Whatever. She had been dolled up to go out so it would be easy to catch her at Ter's—Angelina was too pregnant to keep up with Alicia and he was positive Katie would only wear a dress like that, designed to grab every male in sight by the balls, if she was going out with Alicia the Party Queen. Answers. He'd better get some goddamn answers—had she really expected him to just let her smart mouth go? He'd lug her back if he had to._

_Of course it hadn't been as simple as that. Katie and Alicia were fucking speedy little Gryffindor queens and when Marcus had popped in through the Floo the odour of alcohol hit him head on, fucking Ter sipping back his own brandy easy as you please in a home devoid of feminine cackling or the clacking of dancing heels. The ladies had already left for the business woman's favourite dance club and yes, what would intrepid Alicia's new mission in life be?_

_There was no way in the seven rings of Voldemort's hell that Marcus was losing this time._ _**Laid?** _ _Ms. Healer was going out tonight for one purpose was she? And who would be the lucky bloke with an apparent death wish in this equation? Ter, of course, had no idea; but Marcus had a pretty decent guess, and if he left his best friend rather abruptly who could really blame him? Fucking Theodore Nott thought that he was going to waltz back in to Katie Bell's life after he and Oliver had come this close?!_

_Roger Davies and now Theodore Nott…_

_And how far was Marcus willing to go this time?_


	16. And Then...

Och! Christ, Oliver didn't think it was possible to miss London so much.

Not that he hadn't enjoyed visiting the surrounding islands of Sabana-Camaguey and the Canarreos at a breakneck pace with his swimsuit model-like chaperone Sofia, or cruising the Casa de Simon Bolivar museum in Havana or the world heritage site in Trinidad with swimsuit model-like tour guide Ramone. He couldn't really complain about the five air conditioned press junkets or the scripted jokes he'd been paid to repeat over and over again as the Nimbus envoy shook hands with the Cuban ministry and deals were made, his visage captured by dozens of smoking cameras. This was Oliver's job and he was paid well to smile and swear that nothing could beat a Nimbus! What sickened him was that he'd had to bring Blaise halfway around the world with him, the bastard swooping down on the Widow Brown like a slick-lipped snake while she tripled checked the tours itinerary with the local promoters. But what  _nouveau riche_  waif wouldn't want a handsome, articulate Pureblood on their arm? The Scottish Keeper would have sat back and watched the train wreck waiting to happen gladly if the new 'friends' hadn't accompanied the spokesman around the archipelago and Blaise hadn't been hitting on both Sofia and Ramone whilst Lavender haggled for souvenirs.

Sunning on Varadero Beach in one of few private moments, Oliver could only lament on the lost opportunity of a truly wonderful vacation. Marcus would have dragged him bodily to a boxing match or a football game—even though these Westerners doggedly kept referring to it as soccer—avoiding the open places of Caribbean beauty for the more primal entertainments, performing Perreo to mindless club reggaeton and giving the Cuban witches a run for their money. Wizards too if only their regime would openly approve such debauchery. Katie, on the other hand, would have demanded rumba lessons and then spent the time laughingly complaining about her clumsy feet while encouraging Oliver and Marcus to cut loose. There would have been marimba and mayohuacan shopping—not that Oliver wasn't bringing home items of interest—and drunken hotel plotting to overthrow the government with aphrodisiac-infused  _ropa vieja_  and  _moros_.

Merlin, thinking about more black beans and garlicky rice almost made Oliver vomit into his beer. What ever happened to a bit of curry?

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_"I had a dream about you when we were in school."_

_Marcus' eyebrow rose as he resumed his perusal of Katie's face, the white line of her neck disappearing into scarlet robes, blond hair pushed back from her flushed face; it was no hardship to remain standing as he was, looking upon the beauty that held him captive as surely as any Veela could._

_"Only one?"_

_She graced him with a small smile, teeth sinking gently into her bottom lip. He waited for her to lick the abuse, wanted to see a flash of tongue, but it was not to be._

_"Actually, you weren't there."_

_"In the dream?"_

_"At Hogwarts. You and Oliver had just graduated and I—"_

_"The dream, Katie." Marcus leaned close to trace his nose against her temple, savouring her hitched breath and the sudden shiver that his presence caused._ His presence _. For all that he loved him, Marcus didn't want to hear about Oliver right now or school days that really should be forgotten. They were different people back then, even he could admit that, and Marcus only wanted to think about the here and now and that at this moment he was all that Katie wanted._

_"I was in bed," she whispered, tilting her cheek to feel more of him against her face. "I was reading and the curtains were open—those velvet ones around the bed—"_

_"Yea, we had those as well in Slytherin," he spoke along her chin, his hand releasing the armrest to glide up to her bare right shoulder. No rinky-dink trailing of fingertips, no barest touch of flesh to flesh: Marcus' palm lay heavy on Katie's arm, thumb massaging infinity symbols into the delicate line of her collarbone._

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Oliver unbuttoned his yellow dress shirt roughly, throwing the light material down upon the double size bed with a deep sigh. This new company representation was feckin' well pissing him off and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. The new broom was definitely a hit; he had rode it all bloody afternoon, which wouldn't have been bad except for the fact that Lavender and pigeon-chested project manager Silas Ottobaum stood around like smug little arseholes, grinning at the Nimbus brand performance as if they had been the ones to actually work out the previous model's slight problems with aerodynamics or to execute the dare-devil style dives that only a Keeper of Oliver's calibre would be able to demonstrate. A Chaser would have been a useful delegate but the Cuban teams had enough of them to volunteer and Oliver was thankful to get off the pitch for the evening.

As he flicked pointlessly through Spanish television, Oliver had to hand it to the wizarding world that inhabited the islands within the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea: they had thoroughly integrated the Muggle world into their own. This posh hotel almost directly on top of one of the state-run establishments was equipped with all the modern Muggle luxuries, not the least of which was a giant plasma TV and well stocked mini-bar. Of course, with all the regulations and penalties to be incurred on magic performed near the Muggle populace entertainment needed to be supplied to the visiting wizard somehow.

Bronzed Goddess Sofia had driven him back from the heavily warded quidditch stadium, the roads rough but the Son on the radio palatable to the ear and the company welcome. She was rather tolerable once the cameras were off and dozens of old men weren't staring at her arse and pert chest. A warm wind rushed in through open windows as she laughingly pointed out hot spots of the Havana club scene, informed Oliver with little bitterness on the declining state of healthcare for regular citizens like herself—no St. Mungo's here apparently—and knowingly explained that if he really wished to see Cuba he would leave his five star accommodations and book a  _Casa particulares_ , go mingle with the real people between spokesman duties.

Laying in bed with several small bottles of firewhiskey and a second thick cigar, Oliver wasn't going to feel guilty about his successes. He hadn't grown up with money or fame; his parents weren't influential by any means nor had his marks ever been Outstanding. Oliver had been determined, a hard worker, and a pragmatic self-promoter, and even though he was on an all-expenses paid trip to warm waters he himself didn't have the galleons to pay for it should the experience ever wish to be repeated solo. Not if he didn't want to be in debt to goblins for a year. So Oliver was going to enjoy all the perks that were coming to him, yea. All by himself. It didn't stop him from feeling like shite though, thinking about the houses he had passed by where, according to Sofia, groups of magical children had to practice flying with only one broom between them.

Half asleep, he really didn't want to answer the door when the knock came.

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_"You stood by my window," she sighed, wishing he hadn't shaved before coming to the club, that there would be a harsher scrape of stubble. "You just watched me from the window, wearing your black robes and green tie, and I didn't know why you were there." The second the words were out of her mouth Katie winced at how naïve, how stupid it sounded. She wasn't trying to be coy or playful like so many nameless quidditch groupies; it was a sudden need, a desire to make Marcus see he hadn't been invisible to her back then just as he definitely wasn't invisible to her now. She lifted her head slightly, forcing Marcus to move back. "I don't—I mean, at the time—Oh!"_

_In one swift movement she had been pulled up and off the couch, Marcus' hands branded onto her shoulders and her fingers digging in to his shirt._

_"I know why I was there Katie," one hand moved to the nape of her neck underneath thick strands of damp hair. His voice had a rough strangled quality that that had Katie's pulse pumping; a fleeting thought passed that she would like him to slowly tug and her cheeks warmed. "What happened next?"_

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"Aren't you going to invite us in Ollie?"

No trace of humour, no fleck of warmth in his deep chocolate eyes: Oliver looked coldly at his inebriated superior and the Baggage that was currently ravishing her long pale throat. His reply was layered with repugnance.

"What are ya doing here?"

"Now, now Oliver," Blaise raised his head with a Leviathan smile, arms wrapped securely around the young widow as he walked them both into Oliver's hotel room while the Keeper fought the urge to slam the door. "Be nice to the lady. She signs your cheques after all."  _Lady?_  Watching the both of them now, Oliver couldn't believe he once felt pity for the blond bombshell; she had certainly dropped the poor widow routine that had domineered the last Nimbus board meeting. Oliver gave the knob a bitter twist as he shut the door.

"It's late, I'm tired and so I repeat: what are ya doing here? Oi! Ge'off—" he stifled the yell and instead let it fall to a deep grumble in the back of his throat, his hands turning to fists as he watched Lavender slide onto his bed and laughingly sit up on her knees, toying with the buttons on Blaise's white silk shirt.

"You looked so stern earlier Ollie," she giggled, pouting lips kissed free of garnet lipstick, pale red remnants visible in the corners. "I was hoping you'd kit yourself—" here she leered at his bare chest to which Oliver only rolled his eyes at how her last word was slurred, "and come out with us for some fun."

"'Was' being the appropriate word," Blaise smirked, running his smooth hands up Lavender's newly tanned arms, still a little red around the shoulders. "There's just so much more fun that can be found  _inside_. Ms. Brown came around to my way of thinking." He leaned down to lick at her open mouth and to avoid kicking something the Keeper moved to shut off the still unintelligible television. He didn't need this shite. "And I knew you'd be open to suggestion. After all," hands moved higher to the nape of the woman's neck, pulling at her large curls to further bare her throat, "you've always liked fair-haired ladies."

Oliver turned around with a face of stone and previously old eyes flashing as Blaise wrapped a lock of Lavender's hair around one finger.

"Isn't she pretty Oliver?"

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 _What happened next? Katie every so slowly began to inhale, filling her lungs to bursting. It would be easy to lie. What happened next?_ Why Marcus, you came to my bed of course. And the sheets were gone and you undressed me and you kissed me so deeply I couldn't—

_She somehow broke his possessive eye contact and lowered her forehead onto Marcus' shoulder, exhaling into the warm fabric of his shirt. His arms moved down to wrap about her waist tightly but Katie hated to feel the tension underneath his heady embrace; she was going to ruin the moment by being honest and he knew it._

_"Nothing happened," Katie stated softly, unclenching her fingers but not releasing him. "Alicia woke me up before you even spoke and…and the dream never came back."_

_They stood in silence, the former Slytherin's locked jaw ultimately coming to rest a topped the trainer's head. It was late and Katie could feel passion edging towards exhaustion. But Marcus had only touched her, just like he promised, and Katie's dress was still on._

_"I can bring it back Katie," was his hoarse response, his chin ruffling her hair. "I…Oliver and I can make you happy." Her eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly as that one sentence ma her heart ache._

_"Happy?...I want to be happy Marcus."_

_"Yea. Me too."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about Cuba, the people who live there, its culture, or geography. Absolutely nothing. And it was not my intention to embarrass or offend anyone with the views expressed in this section.


	17. Sans Oliver

She couldn't jump forward anymore than she could go back; it would be foolish to think all was right with the world and it would be infantile to pretend that words hadn't been spoken, that both she and Marcus hadn't shared something of themselves last night or that at several points she hadn't wished to be ploughed long and deep beneath his iron form.

Ploughed?

Katie rolled her eyes and got out of bed. There would be no hiding today, no attempts at clandestine exercises or analyzing her wardrobe to within an inch of its shabby life: it was Sunday and Katie wanted to make a big greasy breakfast and go for a jog and visit with Angelina—do everything she would normally do even without the solid knowledge that two men wanted to share her life completely and not just this one box she called a bedroom. Katie wanted all of that and more…but could she be strong enough to take it? To see beyond Marcus' gruff exterior or Oliver's years of teasing looks? The blonde's stomach gurgled and she sighed. Maybe she could be strong enough to put on bacon and sausage before sending Alicia two dozen howlers.

As the pans sizzled and meat fried, as she prepared tea, juice, and put together a plate of scones and jam, a nervous energy filtered through her, a spring in her steps as if she was just waiting for some future song to play and lead her in dance around the small kitchen. Was Katie giddy? Giddiness? She snatched up a pastry dry and stuffed half of it in her mouth. Gid—No, no. It was a nice day and it was the thought of a good run. Wind in her hair. Fists clenched. Muscles pumping.

"Smells good."

Katie spun around in her white socks and running slacks, coughing on the scone as she watched Marcus close his door and make his way over to the table, briefcase, wand and formal dinner jacket in hand. A tie hung askew around his neck, the dark green silk bright against the white crispness of his shirt, and if she hadn't currently been inhaling sweet bread she would have laughed at the chosen colour scheme. He probably had silver cufflinks. Oh for the life of an Old Moneyed Slytherin. "Alright there?" He had put down his armload and was regarding her while trying to knot his tie, eyes waiting for her not-so-serious condition to turn life threatening.  _Sure he is_. Katie nodded, coughed again, and swallowed, turning back to the pan before the delicious smells became an odour of burnt fat and metal. She scooped up several pieces and handed a plate to Marcus…then realized he was still looking at her with uncertainty.

"I'm fine Marcus," she chuckled hoarsely. "It'll take more than a scone to kill me!"

He grunted humourlessly, picked up a cup of tea and sat down to eat. Katie wasn't going to settle for silence though. She poured herself a cuppa, filled her plate and too a seat. "You look nice."

"I'm going to Wales."

Katie blinked, almost dropping her fork.

"You're going home?" Marcus caught her gaze across the table, his look somewhat patronizing for a moment.

"I'm going to Wales. There's business that Ian shouldn't handle and according to Mother I've been a rotten big brother." Ah. Katie shook her head with a laugh, not liking the breath that slowly came out and ignoring the slight bite in his tone. Mothers were annoying creatures right? Everyone said so. Silly. "Should be back tomorrow night."  _Should be?_  It was right on her lips but the blond didn't ask. It wasn't like she was afraid to be alone for a night; she wasn't worried that Marcus couldn't Apparate safely. She just…she just wasn't. He placed his dishes in the sink and reached for his jacket.  _Think I'll wash your dishes now do you?_  That was on her lips as well, just a joke, something light hearted to see him on his way and to make sure he didn't think she was being weird about all of…this.

Katie didn't get to speak though. As soon as the sleeves were over his muscled arms Marcus picked up his things and leaned his six foot plus bulk over as if to place a kiss gently on her cheek. Her head moved of its own accord, nose trailing against the stubble of his jaw, expressed slight shock with exhaled breath: Marcus pulled back but obviously saw something reflected in her face that he liked as she was then graced with a small smile, soft eyes. "I'll see you tomorrow yea?"

"Yea. Take care."

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"And you didn't even  _try_  to stop me!"

Feminine laughter filled the air under the plum tree—titillating, rich, exasperated. Angelina lounged on a nest of pillows (Fred's concession for 'allowing' his pregnant wife to sit on the ground outside), a bowl of blueberries and vinegar-soaked chips resting comfortably a topped her firmly rounded belly and vivid maternity wear. Alicia leaned upon the bench, large black sunglasses matching the rest of her expensively dark outfit, red mouth smiling wickedly around the edge of her tall glass of orange juice despite her much-bemoaned hangover. Katie lay on her side along the edge of the checked picnic blanket, pony-tailed head propped up with one hand while the other flicked pink sugary popcorn at the two women across from her.

The jog had been short. Too many emotions bubbling inside which demanded the attention of and recognition from life-long friends, Katie hadn't been able to concentrate and her stride had suffered, knees had suffered. Someone else deserved to suffer so it was a lucky thing to find both her girls enjoying the fine weather outside Angelina's cottage. Saved Katie the cost of an owl at least and it was so much more satisfying yelling at Alicia in person.

"What was I supposed to do Katie?" Alicia trilled gleefully, her crimson nails still intact and gleaming as she pointed from one woman to the other. "You're of age for Godric's sake! Ange keeps telling me you're the most responsible of us three—"

"Responsible?" Katie snorted, giving the dark goddess an incredulous look. "When you have a husband, a  _stable_  full time job, and a baby on the way?"

"Mmm," Angelina smiled around a mouthful of berries. "But I had the crazy notion to marry a Weasley." Another gale of knowing laughter followed.

"But really," the business woman tried to get herself under control, "how could you  **not**  know Marcus Flint was copping a feel? You live with the man!" A handful of popcorn went flying. "Far be it from me to stop a grown woman from getting something in a bathroom that she's not getting at home."

"I didn't get anything!" Katie exclaimed, almost shrieked, sitting up on her hip before dropping back with a groan at the looks and choked chuckles coming from her friends. She dragged a forearm over her eyes, buttery soft violet jumper filling her vision. "Yea, yea, yea. Bints."

"So what?" Alicia coughed. "He took you into the loo to compliment your dancing?" Angelina snickered.

"Or lecture you on your poor taste in companions."

Katie sighed and rolled over, plucking grass off the thigh of her black cords. She had thought about explaining her little deception at this point in the tale, how Marcus believed she had only gone out to meet with Theodore Nott, but in the end the trainer had decided against it. While she trusted Alicia and Angelina implicitly, the former was married to Marcus' best friend and secrets invariably were heard through a slip of the tongue. She was better off keeping this one to herself. At least until she could speak to Nott about why the hell Marcus was so irritated with him…unless they had spoken previously. Oh dear.

"Don't make us beg Kates," Angelina admonished, breaking through Katie's introspection. "I have to live vicariously through you party-types now—And don't start!" she held a greasy chip in Alicia's direction. "We all know the only difference between you three years ago and you now is a ring!" Alicia pretended to appear affronted but couldn't hold it for more than a few seconds.

"Three years ago? Maybe a better sex life." She poured herself more juice as Katie guffawed and Angelina shook her head. "Seriously! Slytherins are possessive bastards. It's a ring to you but it's better than the Kama Sutra to Ter. But Katie will learn that soon enough." There was more laughter and Katie liked to think that most of it was coming from her but given Angelina's furrowed brow and the removal of Ali's glasses it was not to be.

"Merin Katie, you're as white as a sheet."

"Kates, what—What the bloody hell happened between you and Flint?!"

"Nothing, nothing." That had been a quick response. Too quick. God, thinking about rings had been like a punch to the gut. Marriage? Maybe…in a few years. Katie hadn't really thought about it to be frank. There had always been Hogwarts and quidditch, St. Mungo's and now the Arrows. Yea, comfort, affection,  _a freaking boyfriend_ —who didn't want that? But-But marriage? Nooo, she just wouldn't think about that now—

"You're a bad liar Katie." Alicia's arms were folded now, drink put aside. Even Angelina was ignoring her snack. "I know for a fact that Marcus came looking for you, Ter told me as much when I stumbled in this morning. And since yooou—" she rode roughshod when Katie thought to interrupt, "—never came out of the loo last night  _something_  clearly happened. Now spill it Bell! If you didn't go at it like rabbits what did you do?!"

"We didn't do anything," Katie hissed, sitting up with a tug to her blond mane and then a hand down her jaw, giving her neck a squeeze.  _Just say it already! It's what you came here for right?_  "He told me—He told me Oliver's in love with me."

The pause was palpable and Alicia's bloodshot eyes were as big as saucers. Angelina had a death grip on her bowl. "And he…he practically implied he felt the same."

"Practically…"

"Implied…"

Katie glared defensively then made a disgruntled noise and stared down at the blanket.

"He didn't say the words but the message was there."

"And what message would that be? That he wouldn't mind cheating on his boyfriend?"

Katie's mouth dropped.

"Ten minutes ago you thought it would be great if I—"

"Katie you've known me long enough to know that I wouldn't stand by and let you fuck some  **stranger**  in a bathroom stall. If it had been anyone else I would've been kicking' ass and taking' names!" Alicia had inched over, grasping Katie's tensed hand. "I don't know, I thought he was just going to take the mickey out of you or at the very least you'd have a big laugh when you finally saw who the hell was grabbing your arse!" This earned a snort from Angelina but Katie wasn't feeling as charitable and only managed a tight grin. The brunette sighed. "Merlin Katie, I convinced Oliver to take him back! Somebody needed to be happy in that apartment and if it couldn't be you—"

"He's not trying to cheat on Oliver. Oliver's not trying to cheat on him!"  _I am not the Salazar-damned Other Woman!!_

"Then what are they trying to do Kates?" Angelina's gaze darkened. "And if it's make you miserable then those bastards are going to see how hard a pregnant woman can kick!"

"They'll get tips on how to cope from Fred."

The wives studied Katie for a second before all three erupted into giggles. Katie squeezed Alicia's hand then tugged her over to Queen Sheba's down cradle. "Get over." They lay together in silence, a truce called, friends again—but it had to be asked and Katie knew it had to be said.

"Tell us what's going on Kates."

"I think they both want me, that they want to share me."

"Share—"

"As in…"

"Yep."

"And what do you want?"

"I want to be happy."

"And?"

"…And what?"

"Do they make you happy?"

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Monday practice was uneventful. Katie spent most of it cataloguing wraps, gauzes, muscle relaxants and emergency coagulants, all on hand in case panic overtook senses and spells were forgotten or incantations went awry. Katie was fairly confident in her abilities which meant she had a healthy enough ego to do her job well with sufficient humility to keep her from ever becoming like several of the healers she had run into during her study and internship. Whatever else she may have to say about the Harpy's, their trainer was a weathered-faced old woman with a heart of gold and a mouth like a sailor who could listen to players suggestions without having an epileptic fit. As far as she knew Falmouth's trainer had been around for a few years and had developed that same sense of entitlement that Marcus smugly explained all Falcons had. United's trainer had come with Krum as part of a package deal and he was  _'a right bloody heartless, sardine munchin' bastard,'_ or so Oliver lovingly described, over a heat pack and deep tissue massage.

Marcus and Chinese take-a-way were there to meet her when she arrived home later that evening—arms full of groceries and head full of the dinner she was going to make (a tasty rice pilaf and tuna noodle casserole recipe that Mrs. Wood had Owled once)—though with both the Chaser and white boxes spread out, Marcus' frame conquering the couch in worn-in comfort clothes and sneering at rerun rugby on the telly. Katie couldn't help but laugh as he threw a broken chopstick at the screen, groaning while Sussex made one bonehead move after another against Frankfurt. She placed her bags on the counter.

"Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results is the definition of insanity." Marcus quickly swivelled up and around on the oxblood leather, sucking back a mouthful of noodles with a loud slurp and a smile.

"Did you just call me 'insane'?"

"If the broom fits." She shrugged out of her team jacket and placed it over a kitchen chair before wrestling a fork out of the cutlery drawer and tossing it at Flint's head, giving a sarcastic fist-cheer when he snatched it out of the air. "Insane, but with great hand-eye coordination!" He waved her over with a smug chuckle but Katie was already headed to her room. "Not til I find my own comfy clothes, then I'll come eat your offerings."

She heard him cough, clear his throat, and Katie was thankful her door was closed when the blush finally blossomed over her face.

Won tons, dumplings, sweet and sour ribs, chicken balls, noodles, chicken fried rice spelled free of green peas: they sat and ate and joked about their days, Katie taking private note of how Marcus' hard angles softened whilst speaking of his sister. Rugby came and went, followed by an  _oh so_  rousing game of croquet, but as she laughed at Marcus' insulting commentary it didn't seem so bad.

"So when you and Oliver lived with…"

"…Richard?"

"Yea him. Is this what you both did?"

"Did what?"

"Watch bad television, eat…sit together."

"Oh."

Katie had been wiping her mouth free of oily won ton flakes and the napkin slowly dropped to her flannel covered lap; Marcus was looking down at his plate, pushing some dumplings around disinterestedly and asking more than just an interest in past events. Or so it seemed to Katie. Maybe it was paranoia, maybe it was cynicism leftover from Alicia, but she couldn't stop herself.

"Is this the game we'll be playing now?"

Furrowed brows and bright green eyes were turned on her.

"What are you talking about Katie?"

"This comparing," she was able to keep her voice calm, looked him in the eye. "Oliver and I, you and I. Hmm. You and Oliver. Is that what I have to look forward to?" Katie could see a slight bewilderment in Marcus' gaze before the slow but inexorable tightening of his mouth and clenching of his jaw overtook his entire face. She could see him try and shrug it of but when did Marcus Flint ever shrug anything off? She saw him as a man who remembered details, who locked away every insult—perceived or otherwise—for sublime future use.

"Forget it."

He was off the couch in a second and headed towards the sink, shoulders tense, and Katie gave an audible huff, her lips twisted, angry and unable to explain why.  _Godric damn you Alicia!_

"Well these are things we're going to have to talk about Marcus!" The blond gathered together the empty take-away and followed after the volatile former Slytherin. "If you and Oliver and I are really going to make a go of this  **I**  want to know right now what I'm getting into." She shoved the boxes into the trash bin just as Marcus dropped his plate and cutlery carelessly into the sink. Nothing broke but the noise fuelled Katie's sense of self-righteousness.  _No, no no! I have a right to know! If they are going to do this half-arse then bugger them!_  Double entendre aside, she steeled her Gryffindor courage and continued. "We're like a team now,"— _Oh Jeez, Quidditch analogies?!_ —"so if you're gone for an overnight game or business I don't want you upset over what Oliver and I may or may not be doing!" He didn't respond but Marcus' fists were now clenched white upon the counter.

Merlin help her, she was going to demand a response whether he liked it or not.

"And what about…" her face began to heat up but she wouldn't back down. "What about when we're together…in bed. When the three of us are together, touching one another…Will Oliver question why you yelled out my name at the end? Am I going feel left out when you repeat Oliver's name over and over?" Oh gods, just the thought was enough to fill her head with weeks of fantasy fodder but that wasn't why Katie was laying these particular cards on the table. She resisted the urge to bite her lip and barrelled on. "Will you leave us if I moan Oliver's name instead of—"

"Stop it!"

Katie hadn't even seen Marcus take the step to spin around but the red-faced Chaser had snarled and spun in record deftness, snatching her wrist from where Katie had raised it and suddenly changing the course of the conversation. He released her just as quickly as a pained gasp was expelled passed her surprised mouth. It was always the wrist; while never up for discussion, they forever seemed to be forcing their memories back to the pitch at Hogwarts, back to House rivalries, back to when she couldn't look at him and vice versa, back to  _fucking_ image. And he was already backing away.

"Marcus it's—"

"Just—Goodnight Katie."

And, shaking her head, Katie let him go back into his cold, detached, antagonistic bedroom without another word. For now.


	18. Sans Oliver, Part Two

Katie left Tuesday morning before Marcus woke up, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of walking out on her or a full breakfast two mornings in a row even if it meant skipping the meal herself and bagging cold Chinese for lunch; she had gone to bed last night secure in her need to force the Chaser to face up to the complications imminent with the type of partnership he and Oliver were proposing, but thinking does as thinking will and Katie had awakened angry. For the love of Merlin, men were simpletons!  _"Oh yes Katie, we both want you, have wanted you for years actually, so let's all jump in the sack and stay naked for a few weeks alright?"_  …Not that that wasn't an enviable thought but even Katie—who had never been in a long-term relationship—knew that it took work to make them work. Even Angelina and Fred must do more then fuck.

She felt completely useless at practice, lost in thought over Marcus' emotional rejection while really trying  _not_  to think about this hypothetical threesome like a wannabe psychoanalyst. But they needed to talk out their issues right? Was it so wrong of her to ask that Marcus confront any feelings of jealousy before he accepted her into his and Oliver's bed? And had Oliver really thought about it, seeing Marcus in her arms? _That boy needs to get his arse back home!_  Katie sighed and attempted to give a shite about her players staying on their brooms. She didn't fancy another inquisition from Alicia so today's internal worries would be left to fester, no floo calls after work or a meet-up at the pub. All she really wanted was a stiff drink and a slab of Honeyduke's chocolate. Hopefully a shot of whiskey and some warm pyjamas would do—No, no, she was starving, and a damn trainer should know better. Screw the casserole.

"Take away fish and chips and then the whiskey."

"Talkin' to yerself agin Bell?"

"Shut up Joe."

Katie hadn't thought to see Marcus that evening—he'd be at Roughage's, he'd be performing extra laps, he'd be yelling at First Years again(what the bloody hell did she know?)—so when she unlocked the door, take away under one arm and still nursing a sense of righteous indignation against closed-lipped males who claimed to want her, Katie was surprised to see the former Slytherin in a grey wife-beater washing dishes, a scent of soapy shower floating about the apartment.

"Think you can get a couple of days off?"

Katie paused, the whiplash statement causing her to eye her roommate incredulously before placing her wrapped supper on the counter.

"Are we going to go be awkward in another country?" She immediately regretted it. "I didn't mean that."

"Yeah you did. It's alright." He dropped a fork onto the crowded drying tray, giving Katie the distinct impression that it really wasn't. "So can you?"

"Why?" Katie unzipped her Arrows jacket and draped it over a chair, everything oh so casual she thought her teeth might crack. There was a soft, disgruntled sigh from the sink followed by another cleaned fork.

"Business isn't finished in Swansea and I've got a short leave from the Falcons." Another sigh. "Mother wanted me to invite you and Oliver up." Katie retrieved a towel and began drying the clean dishes while that tidbit of information settled. Yelena Flint was dispensing a personal invitation to the Flint Estates. Really.

"Oliver won't be back until Saturday."

"But you're here."

Katie bit her lip, hands stilling on a plate; should she interpret that as Marcus' stab at apology? Mental. Just because he wasn't upset now didn't mean he was repentant about last night's conversation. An ugly part of her psyche commented that this could simply be part of Marcus' own scheme to push Oliver out of their lives— _his_  life—but Katie forcibly shoved that thought aside right after jumping on it a few times. She was not going to stroll down that arrogant road of quasi-adultery. Not only was Katie not a bundling ball of egotistical sexuality, it would mean hurting Oliver, and, like the skipping record Katie feared she was becoming, the trainer had no intention of playing Tug-Of-War.

Fortunately, the real Katie Bell truly believed that Marcus loved Oliver and vice versa.

Truly.

Stupid Alicia.

"Do I have to pretend to like your brother?"

Marcus coughed, pressing his wet hands against the sink; he turned his head.

"I don't."

"Like him, or pretend to?"

"Katie—"

"Let me make a few calls."

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The ride through Wales wasn't nearly as morose as her first journey had been with Alicia and Ter last year. Of course, this time they weren't travelling to the funeral of a man Katie had never met who happened to be the older brother of a former schoolmate whom she hadn't expected to ever see again outside the pages of  _Witch Weekly_. There was no classic carriage cantering along solemnly, no engaged couple holding hands and caressing other parts while Katie diligently read a copy of  _The Quibbler_ ; Marcus had surprisingly somehow procured a luxurious vehicle in Swansea—no chauffer of course  _(because Godric forbid he give up that sort of control!)_  since the venerable Flint Estates were not meant for prying Muggle eyes—stocked with plump red strawberries, thermoses of hot chocolate, and mineral water. Under Katie's hands the leather interior felt as if a carcass had been gummed to unbelievable softness before being transformed into posh seat covers, and as they zipped over the highway the sounds of the old roads were virtually muted, enough so that Katie wondered if Marcus hadn't laid a Charm over the car himself.

She wouldn't have put it past him, and she wasn't a fool to believe that this lovely gesture of comfort was entirely for her benefit alone. Oh Katie was grateful—her  _arse_  was grateful—but Marcus was a fan of the finer things in life and his apologies sucked. They hadn't talked much since leaving the apartment.

She had drank the hot chocolate though.

…And ate the strawberries.

"How long will your business take in town?"

"I told you we'd be here a couple of days Katie."

"No, I mean how long will my company be forced upon your family without your presence?" There had been no nice way to phrase it…well none that Katie had wished to take the time to think up…and she could have been much ruder. Marcus gave her a dry look. There was a pause where all could be heard was Katie taking a gulp of the perfectly sweetened drink and she barely had time to swallow before his mouth curved.

"I'll try not to stay away too long. I know you'd miss the stimulation—"

Katie's eyes snapped open.

"—since you won't have any chores to do."

She screwed the cap back on the thermos telling herself that the sudden flash of heat to her face was due to the residual steam and not the memory of the kind of stimulation Marcus' hands and body could offer. She caught him staring and slowly turned her head to stare out her passenger side window.

"When did you learn to drive?"

There was a masculine chuckle.

"I'm a Pureblooded wizard Katie. We don't have time for that sort of Muggle rubbish. And," he spoke over her look of indignation, "if you'd actually paid attention instead of eating all my food—"

" **Your**  food!"

"—you would have realized that I haven't turned this circle once since we started."

Katie's mouth opened, then shut, and then the Arrows' trainer simply stared at the steering wheel underneath Marcus' grip. He was right. Even though the beautiful car moved skilfully the steering wheel itself didn't budge. Silencing Charm huh? Obviously Katie had been thinking in terms of sickles instead of galleons. She shook her head.

"Then why are you pretending?"

"I never pretend." Given that he wasn't responsible for their safety Marcus' steady eye contact was somewhat unnerving, and their recent argument wasn't being helped by the turn this conversation seemed to be taking. Marcus' green eyes were warm, inviting, like a nice liquor, and Katie suddenly didn't want to be angry at him anymore. It would have been nice to reach over to play with the black waves near his temple, smooth down the collar of his dress shirt. But that was too intimate right now and the car wasn't big enough and she still wanted answers that he hadn't been able to give. It must have showed on her face because Marcus' jaw flexed and the moment was over. "But I didn't want to offend your delicate sensibilities by putting my hands somewhere else."

"I'm going to ask your mother if she really extended an invitation for Oliver and I to come visit this week," Katie said quickly, picking invisible lint off her knee and ignoring his double entendre.  _Bloody child_. She wore black denims, but they were new and spotless, along with a preppy little blouse and sweater combo in robin's egg blue. Katie told herself she was definitely not dressing to impress, that she merely wanted to be comfortable while not being a slob. Her thick mass of blond hair was pulled into a neat ponytail at the back of her neck, no make up, her regular old purse on the floor by her feet.

Katie thought Marcus would have a sneering response, bite her head off about distrustful House politics and bring them back to square one again. It wasn't Yelena Flint's motives she was considering however. He lifted an eyebrow but otherwise kept his eyes on the road and Katie disliked the irritation she felt at his silence. She bit her lip and took a slow, steady breath. Now who was being childish? "I'll be glad to see Freyja again," she finally offered sincerely. "How was she the last time you visited?"  _"I'm going to Wales. There's business that Ian shouldn't handle and according to Mother I've been a rotten big brother."_  Curiously, Katie saw Marcus' hands clench and release on the wheel. Had Ian been as cruel to their sister as her roommate had once feared?

"She's good," he said in a neutral voice. "She's…She's fine."

Oh. Well then.

Rather than ask anything else that could be considered a slight against his family or sarcastic even to her own ears, Katie shifted, got comfortable, and readied herself for a long silent drive.

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Fuck, she tasted like the wine and chocolate she and Freyja had been sampling earlier. All soft skin and curves and heat as they pressed desperately against each other, the front door of the apartment a barrier easily slammed away as coats and bags dropped, hands too busy touching what flesh they could reach to worry about struggling with belts and zippers to get to what they couldn't. Marcus' were busy moving deep through Katie's hair, gripping, tugging, keeping her close and sweet and  **there** , her smell in his nostrils, his tongue in her mouth—He couldn't help it, holding her by the scalp while Katie's own palms and nails worked ditches across the span of his shoulders and back.

Their shoe-clad feet skittered across the living room floor, both knowing that the couch was their ultimate destination and Marcus hadn't the presence of mind or desire to stop and suggest her bedroom. He couldn't curse her jeans or his pants because what he had now was better than he could have ever imagined.

"Katie…oh fuck." Marcus growled into her mouth, all instinct and sensation, blood thrumming and thumping and darkened spirit soaring as her Healer's hands ripped open the collar of his business shirt, four buttons disappearing to all corners, forgotten as soon as her perfect pink lips and flashing white teeth descended to the meat and sinew of his thick throat. She was off her feet for only a moment (lifted, up in his arms, so right and tight and close in his embrace) before Marcus followed her down onto the oxblood leather, covering her body with a blanket of his own, his large frame forcing itself between accepting thighs as those strong legs immediately rose up around his own.

It was as if a switch flicked inside Marcus' brain. The heat and touch and taste and smell was too much and his cock was like a rocket launcher in his shorts.

Marcus  _thrust_ , feeding off the moans and gasps of the fucking divine creature beneath him. And  _thrust_. His rough hands coasted up Katie's jaw line, tongue delving deep. Her hips arched, hands clutching on to him just like he often dreamed she would. And  _thrust_  and  _thrust_  and—Her top was thin and long sleeved, a beautiful ruby red that allowed his palms easy access to her stomach and—"Merlin Katie!" Her bra was satin under his fingers, strips of lacy fabric topping the slopes of her breasts like decorative parasols and just as feminine.

"Marcus—"

His mouth was on her neck, in the crook where everything connected, where sweat pooled and his bite made Katie squirm. He wanted her to keep saying his name, all breathy and out of control, panting and wanting  **this**  just as much as he did.  _Thrust_  and  _push_  and cradled by all her secrets; she was pulling the orgasm from his center, the coil of explosive lust building at the base of his spine, balls tightening, forehead furrowed.

"Marcus—"

"Yes Katie…oh fuck…"

"Marcus I—"

"Fuck Katie, oh Merlin you're gorgeous, please…" And  _thrust_  and oh oh oh…

"Marcus—"

"Katie!"

He erupted, feeling his release drip down his thighs even as the pleasure shot through and out, a condensed rippling of sensitive muscle that sent him sprawling over Katie in a muted roar because there were no words truthful enough at the moment.

"…ow."

Marcus stiffened.

_No._

The mixture staining his underwear was a cold paste in the wake of that one tiny word, and the Chaser rose up on hands and knees to examine Katie's face like the Chief Healer he would never be. His maddened previously possessed heart was a rock inside his chest, stopped. He hadn't even noticed her hands had repositioned themselves at some point, no longer pulling Marcus closing but one trying to push him away. Katie's shirt was rucked up around her breasts, the plain white material of her bra visible, her other hand grazing the exposed skin of her abdomen. Marcus felt his face freeze, eyes wide at the burned red of her stomach. The white flesh had been nicked, rubbed, and two indentations screamed obscenities at him: the beak and top wing of Marcus' Falcons belt buckle.

 _No_.

Images from more than two decades ago flashed like a speeding slide show: his mother's persistent face telling him to stay in his room; that same face hours later, mouth swollen and cut, her body shuffling down hallways, barely able to lift her feet. Malcolm Flint watching suspiciously in corners at the woman he had killed to have. Marcus, Ian, and Freyja left in the care of Finny and other house elves while his mother recovered from her husband's demands.

"…Katie?"

She shifted and Marcus wanted to throw up.

He had hurt her.

He had hurt Katie.

"Marcus I—"

Oh fuck, he needed to leave, needed to get his worthless self off of Katie's beautiful fragile body—

"Marcus!"

The Chaser couldn't look her in the eye, jawed locked for fear of spilling all his emotional baggage out through his mouth and fucking begging for Katie's forgiveness. This was why he could never have her, why Oliver was the monumentally better choice and why as soon as the Keeper returned to London he would  _Crucio_  whatever was left of Marcus' insignificant life. Oliver. Oh Merlin, he'd lost them both.  **This**  was Unforgivable, and as soon as he could untangle her legs from around his knees—

Katie's fingers trailed over his chin, his tightly closed lips, and held his jaw in place. Marcus shuddered under her questing touch but couldn't respond. "Marcus. Please." He was scum. He was fucking scum! "It's alright Marcus, I'm alright." Her voice was soft and logical, so damned gentle and he couldn't stand it. "I was just a bit uncomfortable."

_Uncomfortable?_

"I cut you." Each word was pulled out with a tow truck, all gravel and dripping self-hatred while Marcus concentrated on the perspiration fading beneath her hairline. "Let me up Bell."

"But I'm not finished yet."

Marcus jerked but Katie wouldn't release his chin. "Look at me. Please. I'm not finished Marcus, I need you to…" Her heels dug hard into Marcus' calves, and while he deserved the pain and more he couldn't comprehend why she hadn't punched him already, hadn't spit in his ugly face. One of her hands moved between them to undo the button-zipper combo of her denims and Marcus didn't know what to do. Didn't she understand what he had just done?

"I cut—"

"It's just a scrape Marcus," her fingers curled around to the nape of his neck slowly. "You…you were lovely. I'm glad you stayed in the moment, that you wanted me so badly. But I'm not finished Marcus. I need you to make me come." Her peaches and cream face was flushed with embarrassment, her words bold, and Marcus stayed as stone above her as Katie forcibly brought his clenched fist to her pubic mound. "I was there too Marcus," she said quietly, caressing his knuckles to relax, to follow her palm under the snug fit of her panties. And Salazar damn him, Marcus let her do it. "I was…I was almost there. So please Marcus, make me come. I want you to see it in my eyes when you make me come."

_"I keep watching you and thinking, how can someone be this fucking innocent. I tried to convince myself back then that you were another Gryff actress. Fake. It has to be a joke. Nobody was—is—that good."_

Marcus stretched his fingers, joints moving with the pressure of her own digits, hard gaze shifting down her forehead to latch on to her eyes and thinking how much easier this all would have been if Katie Bell were an actress or an accomplished liar, if her blush or resolute eyes were feigned. But Katie Bell was neither.

She was that good. And he was going to fight to be worthy of that innocence.

Marcus felt her slickness, felt her trembling breath on his cheek, felt her press his fingers deeper at the awkward angle within her clothes. She was so wet. Marcus felt like he was going to crack in half, unable to move unless by Katie's command. The hand at his neck moved into Marcus' hair, smoothing the ebony waves. "Right there," she whispered, her head tipping back automatically. "A—That's it Marcus. Keep going. I need you to keep going. I…Oh yes."

He was guided directly to her clit even though Marcus could feel tantalizing folds opening to him, delicate and warm. A gift. Please. Please let him do this right. Please let him follow what she wanted: a light pressure and release motion that Katie demonstrated on his knuckles, up and down, up and down. Her hard nub swelled and Marcus inhaled quickly, at odds with Katie's shallow panting. She smiled.

"Katie—"

"We'll be more patient next time," she pressed down harder on his bones, forcing Marcus' hand to bear down on her bundle of nerves. Her body surged. "I don't know what's going—Oh Merlin! I—I don't know what's on your mind but please don't stop. Be  **here**  with me Marcus!" There was a rumble in her chest and she clutched onto his wrist. Marcus lips opened in a gasp at the bite of her nails but he didn't stop moving, caressing what he could. She was shuddering and beautiful, undulating against his hand, and Marcus couldn't have looked away now even if the building had fallen down around them.

Katie twisted violently and Marcus found himself pulled into the crook of her shoulder, her arm possessive around his neck as the crest overcame her and the moans ripped free and the hand on his wrist left; Marcus blinked and slipped his fingers lower and within, suddenly needing to know the clench and flutter of Katie's body if only for a moment.

She shrieked and Marcus groaned.

"It was an accident Marcus," Katie soothed moments later. Marcus was surprised he was letting her, but only just. "And that…that was incredible."

He didn't want to leave the cocoon of her heat but it was becoming…uncomfortable…but his mind wasn't so crowded by past demons, and as he slowly brought cream coated fingers to his mouth Marcus felt more drift away. This was not something that could be acted nor brought about by pity or fear. Katie had truly wanted him and her taste was a balm. "You look tired," the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Then she should probable stay where she is."

Marcus was up and off the couch like a shot, a spell on the tip of his tongue along with Katie's juices—but ultimately useless due to the poor packing of his wand—as the blond popped up wide-eyed. Marcus nearly fell over the couch in an effort to keep the dictionary of blasphemies from exploding all over his lover.

The soft click of the door closing was deafening.


End file.
